Within My Hands
by gaelicspirit
Summary: The New Orlean's job comes back to haunt Dean as he and Sam return to stop a series of murders, and end up discovering an evil they may not be able to defeat...with Dean's life in the balance.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Well, nothing related to this story anyway. _

_**Spoilers:** This story is set in Season 1 between "Something Wicked" and "Provenance". I can't yet seem to disconnect myself emotionally from Season 2 enough to write anything set then. _

_a/n: many heartfelt thanks to IMTheresa for allowing me to refer to events that took place in her story "Scars of the Past"… I will be referring to different events from that story later on as well. Also this chapter and later chapters refer to characters and events that took place in my other story "Holding On to Let Go." Not necessary to read to understand, though. BIG thanks also to Kelly for the beta read. This go-round will be much cleaner than HOTLG because of her. Hooray!_

_This story contains phrases spoken in Louisiana Creole. I've worked the translations into the sentences when it seemed to make sense, and when it didn't, I put the translations at the completion of the chapter. Let me know if you think it's too distracting. My intent is to try to make the OC characters feel real._

_The story title (and all of the song excerpts at the beginning of the chapters) is from Metallica's "All Within My Hands". Hope you enjoy! _

_www_

_Love is control_

_I'll die if I let go_

Within My Hands Part 1

"OKAY!"

"Okay? Okay what?" the voice was a teasing purr, confidence in his inevitable submission evident in her words.

"Okay, you win."

"Dean, no," Sam's voice was strained, his lips swollen and bleeding and his eyes heavy with pain and exhaustion.

"Sam," Dean ground out as a warning.

"We win? We win you?"

"Yes, yes already! You win me. I'll go with you," Dean struggled to keep his voice even, to keep his eyes on Cale and her snake of a bodyguard, Riggs. He couldn't look at Sam, at the nameless, faceless men holding his brother's arms to their breaking point, at the defeated slump of his little brother's head. If he did, he would lose control and that would do nothing to help Sam.

"Well, how about that, Riggs," Cale simpered. "We win."

"Let him go," Dean growled between clenched teeth.

Cale turned in a fluid motion, the black scarves draped over her shoulder and around her neck swirling with the motion. "I'm sorry, but it sounded like you just…_demanded _something."

Dean strained against Riggs, the massive forearm against his throat nearly cutting off his air. He ignored him and pinned his dangerous eyes on Cale.

"Let. Him. Go."

Cale stepped up to Sam and grabbed a fistful of his hair, jerking his head up. Sam clenched his jaw, but cried out from the sudden pain. His eyes squeezed shut and his lips quivered from a mixture of rage and helplessness. He forced his eyes open and looked to his brother. Dean wasn't looking at him – purposefully keeping his eyes averted. His entire focus was on the Voodoun who was holding Sam's head captive. Dean's body visibly trembled with rage, his jaw was clenched, and the bruises around his eye and on his forehead only accented the deadly gleam in his green eyes.

"He is important to you, _wi_?"

Sam watched Dean freeze. He knew instantly what went through his brother's mind. Either way he answered could spell doom for Sam.

"Dean," Sam tried again. It was hard to talk through the pain in his throat from the treatment Dean was currently receiving at the hands of Riggs. "Don't."

At that word, Dean's eyes shifted to Sam's. He couldn't help it. He could never deny his brother, and that broken tone in his voice almost shattered Dean's resolve. He met Sam's eyes and saw there the hard determination he had expected. He wouldn't allow it. He couldn't let Sam go, not if there was something he could do about it. Dean looked back to Cale, knowing what she wanted to hear. Knowing she wanted one thing: to cause him pain for taking her sister from her.

"No," he answered, straining to keep the hard edge to his voice as Riggs pressed him harder against the wall. "He isn't important to me, but it's me you want, right? So just let him go."

Cale let go of Sam's hair, allowing his head to drop back weakly. She seemed to study him for a moment, then with a twisted, almost maternal expression she gently stroked his head and cupped his chin so that Sam had to look at her eyes, their vertical pupils flashing wide with wicked glee at her words.

"He lies, _to konprann_? You understand?"

Sam said nothing. She continued.

"He thinks it will save you," she said, and stroked Sam's cheek. Sam pulled away with disgust and he heard a painful breath huff out of Dean as Riggs apparently felt the need to slam him up against the wall again, unnecessarily reminding him who was in control.

Cale leaned in close to Sam, and to his horror, licked the blood from his lower lip. She pulled away and ran her tongue over her own lips with obvious pleasure, reminding him very much of the cat he now knew she could make herself be.

"What he doesn't realize," she continued, her voice a low purr as she turned from Sam and walked toward Dean. "Is that we could care less about you, young one. You were never to be killed." She stepped up behind Riggs, their duel presence crowded together and forcing Dean to take short, quick breaths due to their proximity.

"Say _adyeu_ to your brother, Dean Winchester," she said, rolling her shoulders slightly to the left so that if Dean moved his eyes in the slightest he would see Sam. "You are never going to see him again."

With those words, Riggs stepped back suddenly, releasing Dean. The abrupt release of pressure momentarily surprised Dean and his reaction was one breath too slow. He started to reach behind him for his knife, but before he could move Riggs' mallet of a fist swung and caught him on the temple. Dean collapsed on the ground, but wasn't completely out. He shook his head once, trying desperately to chase the grey from his vision. Riggs' boot met his ribs and flipped him to his back with the unmistakable sound of bones cracking. Dean tried to get a breath and push himself away. He heard his name in Sam's desperate voice, and knew as he watched Riggs' fist descend at an alarming rate toward his already bruised face that he had done the right thing. His life for Sam's. It was the only way.

www

_**Three Days Earlier**_

"You didn't say we," Sam's voice was a low rumble in the close confines of the Impala.

Dean had been randomly spinning the radio dial trying in vain to find a classic rock station in nowhere Missouri. His eyebrows went up in twin inverted V's and he slid his eyes sideways to Sam.

"Come again?"

Sam's right arm was resting on the window ledge, his left casually draped across the back of the Impala's bench seat. He'd been looking out the front windshield and turned to regard his brother with calculating brown eyes.

"You didn't say we."

Finally tuning in a Kansas City classic rock station promising a 60 minute rock block, Dean sat back in his seat and rested his right hand back on the steering wheel as Journey's "Wheel in the Sky" flowed through the interior of the car.

"There a beginning to this conversation or do I have be psychic to follow you?"

"Back in Fitchburg," Sam said, his eyes pinned to his brother's profile, "when I said that I wish I could have the kind of innocence that Michael lost… you said you wished I could, too."

Glancing at him again, Dean's expression plainly said "yeah, and…" When Sam didn't continue, Dean lifted a brow again looking back at the road.

"You lost me, Sam."

"You didn't say we. You said you wished I could…not that we could."

Dean shrugged. "So?"

Sam sighed and sat back against the passenger seat, pulling his left arm into his lap. "Why do you do that, Dean?"

Dean sighed. "Do what?" he said in a wary voice.

"Put me in this different class than you – make me more important than you?" Sam asked, looking over at his brother again. He saw a muscle in Dean's jaw jump.

"'Cause you are."

"Dean –"

"Sam, stop. You just are. End of story."

Sam shook his head. "You're wrong."

"Not about this," Dean's voice was low, clipped. He lifted his chin, indicating a sign for a diner two miles ahead. "Ahh, coffee's calling my name."

Sam rolled his neck, grateful for the break. They'd been driving – rather _Dean_ had been driving – all night and were out of Wisconsin, through Illinois, and were now nearing the Kansas/Missouri border. He didn't know where they were headed yet. Just…south. Away. From the memories the strega forced Dean to face and from Sam's harsh realization of the truth he'd always known and never paid attention to: his brother's sacrifice for him. The sacrifice of an entire life – not through death, but through choice to live for the betterment of another.

"This isn't over, Dean," Sam muttered as Dean pulled off the highway and into the diner's parking lot.

Dean shut off the engine and the sudden silence caused his ears to buzz. He looked at Sam, leveling his eyes. "Yeah, it is."

The creak of the driver's door silenced any retort Sam could think up, and he joined his brother at the door of the diner. They dropped simultaneously in the opposing booth seats, reaching for the menus stacked between the napkin holder and salt and pepper shakers. A young, tired-looking waitress slid up to their table, and to Sam's shock and Dean's amusement, dropped into the booth next to Sam.

"Don't mind, do you? I've been on my feet all night."

"Uh, no," Sam said, almost shyly, shaking his head. He didn't miss Dean's wide grin or the ornery twinkle that gleamed in his eyes.

The waitress pulled a pen from behind her ear and a lock of dark blond hair fell into her eyes. She blew it away out of the corner of her mouth, then tilted her head and blinked her large brown eyes at Sam.

"What can I getcha, sugar?"

Sam shifted in his seat and looked back at the menu. He waited for Dean to speak up, but one glance up at his older brother had him now hoping that Dean would never speak. Ever.

"You were just saying how much you were looking forward to some pancakes, weren't you Sammy?"

The waitress' eyes lit up. "Your name's Sammy? MY name's Sammy!"

Sam glowered at Dean, who was in the better position to read the waitress' name tag.

"It's Sam, actually," he pouted. "But, yeah, pancakes would be great. Blueberry."

Dean kept his eyes on Sam, as did Sammy, and chimed in, "Make that two, with coffee. Lots of coffee."

Sammy grinned, and pushed herself from the booth. "I'll keep it comin' as long as you're here," she said, still looking at Sam.

As she walked away, Sam kicked Dean under the table. "What the hell, Dean?"

Dean, grinning, spread his hands wide in an innocent gesture. "What, Dude? You need to loosen up. She radared in on you the second you walked in the door."

"So?"

Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head. "God, Sam. I am going to get you laid one of these days and you're gonna thank me for it."

Sam tightened his jaw and looked out the window to his right. "That your answer to everything?"

"No," Dean said matter-of-factly. "But it is the best way I know to relieve stress. And damn if you aren't wound tighter than a –"

"I get it," Sam interrupted before Dean could proclaim his most likely dirty metaphor in front of Sammy. She plunked two mugs down, poured the coffee, gave Sam a grin and a wink, then sauntered away. Sam couldn't help but watch her. She was cute. Looked a bit like Jess. At that thought, Sam shook himself. He didn't want to go there now. Or…ever. He saw a newspaper box outside.

"I'm gonna get us a paper," he said, getting up before Dean could respond. He returned a moment later with a _USA Today_.

"Goin' national, Sam?" Dean said, gulping down his coffee and signaling for more.

"Well, unless you have a burning desire to stay in Missouri –"

"No."

"— I thought I'd see if anything looked…y'know… interesting."

Dean sat quietly and ate his pancakes as Sam searched through the paper. He was rarely quiet, but the coffee was hot, the pancakes were surprisingly good, and though he would be loathe to admit it, he found comfort in Sam's presence. He could be quiet around his brother once in awhile without a reason. He just watched – watched Sam read, watched Sammy make her way around the now busy diner, watched the patrons eat and converse, watched the cars on the road outside go by at different speeds, all with their own agendas and worries. So many people. So many lives. And none had a clue what he was, what he did, what he was capable of.

"Huh."

Dean shifted his focus back to Sam, sipping his fourth cup of coffee. He was slowing down now that his body was reaching its maximum caffeine load. "What?"

"You been to New Orleans, right?"

Dean nodded. "Just before I got you at school. I was there when…"

Sam looked up when Dean trailed off. "When what?"

Dean cleared his throat. "When Dad took off."

Sam nodded sagely, knowing his brother was thinking about Chicago and the decision they made to separate again. As angry as that decision had made him, he had seen how much it had hurt Dean to say those words. Dean needed John more than Sam did. He needed them both, Sam realized, more than he wanted to admit.

"Well, I think we might want to think about heading down there," Sam said.

"You have a cravin' for crawfish, Sammy?"

Sam simply lifted an eyebrow at that. "Apparently there's been a rash of deaths in the French Quarter."

"Oh?"

"Four men so far – not connected to each other as far as the police can tell."

"How's this our type of problem?"

Sam looked up from the article. "They all look like they've been mauled by a wild animal, but there's a note attached to each body."

Dean pulled his head back in surprise, his eyebrows pulling together. "A note?"

"Yeah, according to this report, the note just reads 'not him' in Creole."

"Creole?"

"Yeah, they're French descendants who –"

Dean pressed his lips together and gave Sam an exasperated look. "I know what Creole is, Sam."

"Oh," Sam said, sitting back.

Dean ignored Sam's hurt puppy look and sat back, scratching the back of his head. "When I was working that job, I lived with a Creole family in a room above their bar. Good people – had two sons. Kinda…well, kinda reminded me of us."

Sam pulled the corner of his mouth up in a grin. "Yeah?"

Dean smiled, too, looking at the table and remembering. "Yeah. I was… well, you'd been gone for awhile by then, you know?" He shrugged, still not looking at Sam. "I was getting used to you not being around… and then Dad sends me on this job and I see these brothers…"

"Older one a pain in the ass?" Sam teased softly.

Dean's grinned softened. "Older one was a know-it-all, younger one was a pain in the ass."

"They know why you were there?"

Dean nodded. "Helped point me in the right direction, actually. It was a witch stealing kids – not like the strega," Dean clarified at Sam's surprised look. "She was actually taking them and, well, disgustingly enough, feeding them to her voodoo snake."

"Ugh, bizarro world's Hansel and Gretel."

"Tell me about it."

"You get her?"

"Yeah – it was messy, though." Dean stretched his left arm across the back of the booth seat, pausing while Sammy returned to fill their cups again, then absentmindedly toyed with the handle of his coffee mug. "I tried to call Dad at one point when I realized it was going to be a bit tougher to kill her than either of us thought."

"Let me guess, voicemail."

Dean nodded. "That was the first clue that he was AWOL."

"How'd you end up getting her?"

Dean shrugged and looked out the window. Sam had noticed awhile ago that when Dean was forced to relive a particularly painful or trying memory, he wasn't able to meet Sam's eyes or even focus on one thing for too long. His eyes would dart about, not really looking at any one thing, unfocused.

"She was from a family that practiced a weird mixture of black magic and voodoo. Hinky stuff, man. We had to trap her on holy ground inside a circle of blood and then use a blade of silver to cut off her head."

"We?"

"Joss and Judah had to help – I couldn't get all the stuff myself, and, well, getting her to the church lot kinda took it out of me."

Sam pulled his brows together. "You were hurt?"

Dean shrugged. "Not like it was the first time."

"Yeah, but… you were alone." _I wasn't with you…Dad wasn't with you…_

Dean shrugged. "I had a job to do. I did it."

Something tickled in the back of Sam's mind… a memory that seemed to slide in and out of focus. He looked at Dean, watching him look blankly out of the window…

"How come I didn't know?" he asked suddenly.

Dean looked over at him. "Guess I never thought to tell you bef—"

"No, man," Sam interrupted. "How come I didn't know when you got hurt?"

Dean's expression emptied, purposely blank. "I didn't want you to."

He knew what Sam meant. A year after Sam started school Dean had been taken and tortured by a witch and her man to get back at John. They eventually returned him to John wounded, broken, and silent. Sam had somehow known. Dean had always thought Pastor Jim or Caleb had called him, but he later learned that his brother had just somehow known that Dean was hurt. Now, he realized that it had to have been through Sam's visions, but a year after that incident, when he was in New Orleans, he'd been cut, weak, and scared, and the last thing he'd wanted was for Sam to feel him like that time before and come looking for him.

"How did you stop it?"

Dean lifted a brow and shrugged. "Dunno, man. I just did."

Sam regarded Dean silently for a moment, thinking. He knew it was possible. He knew Dean had done it before, when the banshee had attacked them couple of months ago in Massachusetts. A sudden thought struck him. "Whose blood did you use?"

"What?"

"You said you had to trap her on holy ground in a circle of blood. Whose blood did you use?"

Dean slid his eyes to the side. "Mine."

"Damn, Dean!"

"It was a little circle," Dean said defensively.

Sam stared at him incredulous that the size of the circle should make a difference. "You're impossible," Sam grumbled, looking back down at the article. His brows pulled together suddenly.

"Dean."

"What?"

"What were those boys' names?"

"Joss and Judah."

"What was their last name?"

"Coulee, why?"

Sam swallowed. Dean wasn't going to like this. He looked up. "One of the latest victims was a Judah Coulee." He bit the inside of his lip as Dean paled. He watched him look down, pull his lower lip into his mouth, chew on it a moment, then harden his jaw, looking back at Sam.

"Tuck in your skirt, Sam. We're goin' to New Orleans."

www

"Dean, you ready to take a break?"

"M'fine, Sam," Dean's voice was a low growl.

Sam had woken to see that it was dark again, and he'd managed about four hours of dreamless sleep while his brother drove at a relentless pace toward Louisiana. One look at Dean told Sam that he was on autopilot. His muscles knew how to drive that car without Dean's mind having to be engaged, he'd been doing it so long. But his eyes were shadowed, and his jaw was clenched and Sam could see that even if it wasn't focused on driving, Dean's mind was churning on something.

"You want to talk about it, man?" Sam ventured gently.

"'bout what?"

"About whatever has you chewing the inside of your cheek," Sam said.

Dean instantly relaxed his jaw, conscious of his brother's eyes on him. He drew in a long breath, forcing himself to relax his muscles. Now that Sam had made him aware of it, his eyes were burning, his back aching, and he had to force his fingers to uncurl from the steering wheel.

"Man, seriously, let's take a break," Sam said, sitting up straighter as he watch his brother force himself to relax. "When's the last time you slept?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply, and stopped. He honestly couldn't remember.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Sam muttered. "Pull over at the next exit."

"I'm fine, Sam."

"If you won't do it for yourself, then do it for me."

Dean lifted a brow. "You seem to be doing just fine in the sleep department, there, Princess."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Well, then think about your baby. You keep going like this and you're liable to run her into a guardrail when you get too drowsy." God, did he just call the car _her_?

Dean actually blanched at that. Sam stifled his exasperated sigh. If he didn't know better, he would swear this car was tied to Dean's very soul. However, it did convince his brother to pull over at the next roadside motel. Leaving Dean to gather their bags, Sam ran in to get a room. He returned to see Dean sitting behind the wheel of the Impala, staring straight ahead with hollow eyes. Sam opened the driver's side door, the squeak making Dean jump.

"Dean?"

"Yeah."

"You want to go in, or…"

"What? Oh, yeah. Dude. I was just waitin' on you," Dean said, swinging himself out of the car and heading toward the building. He stopped short at the line of doors when he realized he didn't know what room they were in, but couldn't seem to figure out what to do next.

Sam stared after him for a moment, sighed, and went to the trunk to retrieve their bags. When he led Dean to the door, he saw his brother's eyes track to the two duffels in his hand and he wordlessly handed one to Dean. Dean took it with an apologetic grin, then followed Sam into the room. Sam automatically moved to the bed furthest from the door, and dropped his bag on the far side. He turned and was about to offer Dean first shot at the shower when he caught sight of his brother, fully clothed, face-down on the bed, out.

"Dean."

Nothing, no reaction. Sam tried again, this time louder.

"Dean."

He was seriously out. Sam sighed and went over to his brother's bed. He dumped the open duffel on the floor, pulled Dean's boots off, then started to work him out of his leather jacket, fully expecting Dean to wake up and grouse at him for invasion of personal space at any moment. He got Dean's left arm out of the sleeve without dislocating his shoulder, but as he started to work on the right, he realized that his brother had his large bowie knife gripped in that hand. Sam shook his head. He hadn't the energy to shower, to get under the covers, or even to undress, but he'd grabbed that knife before he passed out. He had to wonder what it was like to be inside his brother's head. What was it like to feel like you always had to be the protector? What was it like to not only feel that way, but to have been put in that position more times in your short life than you could possibly remember?

Sam attempted to work the knife from Dean's grasp, but his brother's fingers closed reflexively tighter around the hilt. Sam sighed and managed to maneuver the sleeve over the knife. He pulled the covers off of the top and bottom of the bed, flipping them over Dean so that he ended up looking like a burrito. As soon as he was covered, Dean unconsciously burrowed a bit into the covers. Sam shook his head and went to take a shower. He took his time – mostly because he could, but also because the noise reducing effect of the water and the calming effect of the steam helped him forget for a moment why he was there, where they were going, where they'd come from, and just let him simply be a guy in a shower.

He shut off the water when it started to turn lukewarm, toweled off, and dressed. He was bent forward examining his sparse facial hair in the mirror when he heard Dean call out. He couldn't tell through the bathroom door what he'd said at first, just that the tone had been angry, panicked. He reached for the bathroom handle when he heard it again. Dean was calling for Dad.

Sam hurried out of the bathroom to find his brother on the floor between their beds, still wrapped in the covers from the bed, struggling as though for his life. Sam's chest constricted for a moment as he thought about the large blade of that silver knife stabbing his brother in his nightmare struggle.

"Dean, hey, hey," he said, crouching down in front of his brother, trying to get him untangled from the covers. "Wake up, Dean, it's just a dream."

He finally succeeded in getting Dean's arms free, and ducked as the hand clutching the knife swung out and wide.

"Whoa, easy, there," Sam crooned. "Hey, Dean, man, wake up!"

Dean suddenly stilled, and his eyes blinked open wide. He looked up at the unfamiliar ceiling, across to the side of the bed facing him, then rotated his head to meet Sam's concerned eyes.

"Sam?"

Sam nodded, helping him to remove the covers tangled around his legs.

"What the hell?" Dean rubbed his face with his empty hand.

"Can I have that, Dean?"

Without removing his hand from his face, Dean mumbled, "Have what?"

"The knife."

Dean looked at Sam with confusion, then down at his hand. He seemed surprised to see it there. With an effort, he uncurled his fingers from the hilt and let it drop into Sam's open palm. Sam set it up on the top of the bed. Sam put a supporting hand on Dean's arm as he struggled to sit up fully and leaned his back against Sam's bed. Sam leaned his back against Dean's, facing his brother, his forearms resting on his bent knees.

"Now you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Something's bothering you, man."

"Just a dream, Sam."

"You called for Dad."

Dean looked at him, surprised. "I did?"

"You sounded…scared."

"Well, it was a scary dream."

"Dean, you don't…" _get scared_ he almost said. But he swallowed his words, knowing now with multiple evidence of certainty that Dean did get scared. He lived scared, but he powered through it. He ignored it. He used it. Whatever he had to do to get the job done.

"Don't what?"

"Have to lie to me."

Dean sighed and mirrored Sam's seated position. He then pressed his palms into his eyes so hard Sam was afraid he'd push them back into his head.

Without removing his hands, but relaxing the pressure somewhat, Dean said, "I think I started this, Sam."

Sam shook his head, puzzled. "Started what?"

"These deaths."

"In New Orleans?"

Dean looked up, "No, in Kenya."

Sam ignored his sarcasm. "How could you possibly –"

"When Dad sent me down there," Dean interrupted, "it was to get me away from him so that he could hunt the demon. I mean, we know that now. And, well, he'd tried it once before."

Sam pulled his head back. "He did?"

"That time you called from school."

"Oh."

"The first time he really looked into the case, Caleb said. Really made sure it was something I could handle on my own."

Sam nodded, watching Dean's eyes shift as he remembered. "And this time?"

"I think he was just trying to get me away from him. He knew Paul Coulee, heard about the baby snatching witch, figured I knew what I was doing…"

Sam nodded again, waiting.

"I think that when I got rid of that witch, I started something else. Something worse. Something I should have known about."

Dean sighed and rubbed the tight muscles in the back of his neck, then flopped his hand back across his knees again. "But I didn't stay to check it out. She was gone, burned. And Dad was gone and I was…"

He stopped short of saying _alone_. He didn't look at Sam, but he willed him to understand. Sam clapped a warm hand down on his forearm, compelling him to raise his eyes and meet his brothers.

"We'll figure this out, Dean." He said, solemnly. "We'll fix it."

Dean sighed. "We'd better."

www

"Man, it's like…"

"Another country?"

"Yeah," Sam said, looking around as the Impala slowly rumbled down the brick and stone streets of the French Quarter.

"That's what I thought first time I saw it, too," Dean said, glancing at his brother in amusement.

Sam was leaning slightly out of the lowered window, eyes wide, taking in every sight, smell, and unique sound that was the French Quarter in New Orleans. They drove down Dauphine Street, Dean looking for the bar, Sam just looking. The late afternoon air already had a distinct smell of beer and people, and raucous laughter floated out from various eateries. Sam tilted his head toward the sound of a saxophone echoing in a doorway and the muffled tap of a young boy shuffling in time to the song.

"Man," Sam said. "Unreal."

Dean pressed his lips together and smiled slightly at Sam's youthful enthusiasm. It took a lot to amaze or fascinate him these days, but it was refreshing for Dean to see that Sam hadn't completely lost the childlike wonder that had thrilled Dean to see in him when they were young. Maybe some of that innocence that he wished for his brother still existed on some level.

His eyes caught sight of the familiar brick front of the Coulee bar. He found a spot on the street and maneuvered the Impala between a blue pickup and a yellow VW bug. They got out and started across the brick street together.

"What's the name of the bar?" Sam said, tilting his head at the sign above the door.

"_Katr_. Means four in Creole."

"Four?"

Dean nodded. "Guess it doesn't fit anymore," he said softly, and then Sam understood. Four Coulees, until Judah's death.

They entered through the heavy mahogany doors, the dim light of the near-empty bar wrapping around them and ushering them into the world inside. Dean walked slowly ahead of Sam, setting the pace, as usual. They noted the clumps of two or three people scattered at various tables, a white-haired man at the piano, picking out a blues tune, and a young man leaning over the pool table at the back. Sam followed Dean up to the bar, and sat next to him on one of the worn wooden stools. A young man stood behind the bar, a white towel draped over his shoulder, another in his hand wiping out a pint glass. He was as tall as Sam, with mocha skin and dark hair twisted in a series of narrow braids.

He turned when he heard them sit and Sam saw that he had dark brown, almost black eyes. They slid across Sam and stuck on Dean with a surprised recognition.

"Winchester like the rifle," the man said, his deep voice rumbling out as though through his chest.

Dean grinned, "How ya doin', Joss?" he reached out a hand and Joss clasped it at the wrist, pulling Dean closer to him across the bar. He set the empty glass down, and pounded affectionately on Dean's shoulder.

"It's good to see you in one piece, Winchester," Joss said.

"You, too," Dean said soberly. "I heard about Judah. I'm sorry, man."

Joss's dark eyes immediately lost their sparkle at the mention of his brother and he glanced at a picture on the wall above the single malt scotches. Sam followed his eye line and almost gasped. Judah Coulee looked more like Dean's brother than he did. He even had the green eyes, which stood out in stark contrast from his tanned skin.

"Joss, this is my little brother, Sam," Dean said, clapping a hand on Sam's shoulder. Joss and Sam nodded to each other. Joss looked from Sam, then to Dean, then back to his brother's picture.

"You've come back to finish it, then," Joss stated.

Sam felt Dean sag a little with those words, but his expression never faltered. "So it is the baby witch then."

Joss shook his head. "No. Something worse."

"Worse?" Sam spoke up, remembering Dean's soft, worried confession the night before.

"Dean Winchester," a voice with a deeper rumble than Joss' interrupted them. Dean turned on his stool to face the voice while Sam struggled to place where he'd heard that voice before.

"Paul," Dean greeted him. To say Paul Coulee was a large man would be a significant understatement. He towered over Dean and was about three times as wide as his brother. Still, when Dean stood to shake his hand in greeting, Sam noticed that he didn't look small. Somehow, even with the obvious size difference, Dean still looked powerful.

"Where have you been hiding yourself, boy?" Paul rumbled.

Dean jerked his head over his shoulder, "My brother Sam and I've been… traveling."

Paul lifted an eyebrow. "Where's your Papa?"

Dean pressed his lips together. "He's, uh, he's on a long hunt."

"Sure he is," Paul said, nodding as if Dean had revealed to him a great secret. "Joss, get out the whiskey. We have friends to welcome." He moved away from Dean and around the bar.

Sam groaned inwardly at the thought of whiskey shots. It was his Dad's drink, and he noticed anyone who knew John offered them the same. Dean didn't like it any more than Sam did – for both the memories were hard even as they were different – but he always took it graciously, shaming Sam into doing the same.

As Paul worked behind the bar to get the shot glasses down, talking to his son as he did so, Sam couldn't take it anymore. He leaned over and whispered to Dean, "Where have I heard…"

Dean interrupted in an equally low whisper, anticipating his question. "Darth Vader."

_Yes!_ Sam thought. That was it. He looked back at Paul Coulee with a little more apprehension. His large hands clunked four shot glasses down, and then he trailed the whiskey bottle across the top, filling each to the brim. Sam suppressed another groan. Just as he was about to bite the bullet and down the amber liquid, a sharp, angry female voice shook them from behind.

"NO."

Sam jerked and saw Dean freeze out of the corner of his eyes. He turned slowly and Sam followed suit. A petite blonde woman with large green eyes stood just behind them with her hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. Sam knew instantly that this was Judah's mother. He watched warily as Dean again slid from his stool, standing carefully in front of the small, but formidable woman, his hands out to the side of his body to show he meant no harm.

"Beth," he began.

"NO," she barked again, and Sam found himself worrying for his brother. Her eyes were like daggers and they were digging in to Dean. "You don't get to speak in my home. You don't breathe in my home. You killed my son, and you do not deserve to be here."

www

"Dean, wait," Sam caught up with him when he was at the door of the bar and grabbed his upper arm to slow his trajectory towards the Impala.

"Leave me alone, Sam," Dean said, jerking his arm from Sam's grasp.

"No, man," Sam said, narrowly avoiding getting plowed into by a singing man on a bicycle. "Would you just friggin' wait!" He caught Dean's shoulder at the car and spun him around roughly, forcing his back up against the car.

Dean instinctually came around swinging, but pulled up short when he realized that he was about to deck his brother. "Jesus Christ, Sam," he growled. "You know better than to do that."

"Sorry, Dean, but," Sam panted, licking his suddenly dry lips. "You can't just leave like that."

"Hell I can't. You heard her, Sam."

"She's in pain, Dean," Sam tried.

"Yeah and I'm the cause of it!" Dean shouted. "Me, Sam. Judah is dead because of something I did!"

"You don't know that," Sam said, purposefully keeping his voice level to try to bring Dean's down a notch. They were drawing looks from the myriad of people passing by.

"Yes I do," Dean said, dangerously. Calm, but dangerous. He leaned against the Impala, and covered his face with his right hand, then dropped it against his side. "It's too many, Sam."

Sam leaned next to him, looking back at the bar. "What is?"

"Marshall Hall, Layla, Judah, those three other guys…"

Sam saw where he was going with this, "Marshall Hall, Layla, they're different Dean. You can't blame yourself for what happened to them forever. And this…"

"What Sam?" Dean challenged, a hard edge to his voice. "What magical words are you going to use to make this not my fault, make it all better?"

Sam pushed himself away from the car, suddenly angry. His brother saved people every day – he deserved to be alive, he deserved at least a chance at being happy. And Sam was sick and tired of people blaming Dean for their misfortune and misery. So, he decided to take it out on Dean.

"Fuck you, man. You want to feel sorry for yourself? Be my guest," he yelled and stormed past Dean and the Impala to start walking down the street.

Dean stared after him in shock. He didn't even move to follow at first. Was that was he was doing? Self pity was a weakness he couldn't afford.

"Sam!" he called out.

"Wait," a deep, breathless voice stopped him. Dean turned to see Joss jogging across the street toward him.

"What?" he asked, regarding Joss solemnly.

"My _maman_, she is hurting. She doesn't mean what she says," Joss said, peering at Dean's eyes. "And you remind her of Judah, Dean. She can't help it."

"I'm sorry about Judah, man," Dean said. "But I think your mom's right."

"You did not kill my brother," Joss said, his jaw hardening and his eyes going flat. "It was Cale."

"Who the hell is Cale?" Sam chimed in. Dean jerked around to see him, unaware that he'd come back. Sam looked at his brother and shrugged. "Sorry. I was being a girl."

"No kidding," Dean was relieved to hear the teasing tone in Sam's voice. He was just relieved to have him back.

Sam looked back at Joss. "So… Cale?"

Joss took a breath. "Cale is the witch's Voodoun shape shifting sister."

Sam and Dean were completely silent. They exchanged a blank look, then Dean cocked his head to the right and squinted his eyes at Joss.

"Who's a what now?"

www


	2. Chapter 2

**_Disclaimer/Spoilers/Explanation of Creole language use:_** _See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: I have been to New Orleans twice prior to Katrina, but not since. I have heard that the French Quarter remains largely intact and as it was before the hurricane due it's location above the levees. Not knowing how to describe it, and because the boys stay in the Quarter for the story, I chose to not mention any of the devastation of New Orleans in this story. No offense is meant by this omission. _

_Thanks to everyone for the reviews – it means a lot to me. Seriously makes my day to see those pop up in my inbox. _

_Thanks to Kelly for her beta. You know you rock._

_www_

_All within my hands_

_Under thumb, under to myself_

_All within my hands_

_Beware_

Within My Hands Part 2

Not really interested in going into the details of his revelation in the street, Joss suggested they check into the nearby Pontchartrain Hotel. They agreed. The hotel had two rooms, adjoining, each with single beds. They went up to the first room, and noticing how tiny it was, opened the doors that joined the rooms and propped them open to create the illusion of more space.

"Two bathrooms, Sammy," Dean grinned.

Sam nodded, "Yeah, that's a first, huh?"

He didn't say what he knew Dean was also thinking. It was the first time they'd slept in separate rooms since Dean came and got him at school. Before Sam left, they'd rarely slept in separate rooms – either because they were always on the road with their Dad and sleeping in roadside motels or when they did have an actual house it was so small that the boys shared a room. And while Sam was willing to admit that it was a bit strange for a grown man to be apprehensive about sleeping in a room separate from his big brother, he also contended that their lives were far from normal.

They dropped their duffels in their rooms and then sat down at the table in Dean's room to listen to Joss. Joss sat very still, his hands folded on the table, and he looked over the boys' shoulders, staring into the middle distance as he talked.

"Judah, he knew that the witch was part of a family who practiced black magic," Joss began. "To you," he nodded at Dean, "_li di li ki sa_… er, he said what he knew at the time. You should not feel bad for this not knowing."

Sam slid his eyes to Dean, wondering if he'd listen to Joss any better than he listened to Sam. Dean's expression was set, his jaw muscle jumping, his eyes focused on Joss. It was hard for Sam to tell if Joss' words had penetrated that wall of stubbornness.

"Cale is the oldest of the family. She is known to the city as the Voodoun."

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean asked, his head bobbing backwards in question.

"She is not a practitioner of the art of voodoo as you might think of it. She is true magic."

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "She _is_ magic?"

Joss nodded, his face expressionless. "When her sister was killed, she knew it and has been looking for revenge ever since."

Dean cocked his head to the right. "Ever since? That was almost a year ago."

Joss lowered his chin, "The deaths began the night after you left."

"What?!"

Sam leaned forward and surreptitiously touched Dean's arm, stilling him. "The article we read said that only four men had died, including your brother."

"Four that were known to the community. The rest," Joss shrugged. "Tourists, homeless, you know." He lifted his hand in a gesture that said 'what are you going to do'.

"And the police never connected those deaths to these?" Dean asked, his jaw clenched.

"The notes did not begin until recently."

Sam sat back, thinking. His mind had always been able to scramble out of the maze quicker than Dean's – quicker than most people. He was able to connect the dots of and see the path they needed to follow. Figuring it out usually wasn't the problem. Getting people, like his Dad, to believe him and act accordingly was. He thought of the notes… _Not him_. He thought about Judah's uncanny resemblance to Dean. He thought of Beth's reaction to Dean, seeing him, blaming him…

"Oh, God," Sam whispered.

Dean immediately turned to him. "What is it?"

Sam didn't answer right away, his mind still gathering the loose ends of his thoughts together in a knot. Dean tensed.

"Sam?"

"She's looking for you," Sam said, his eyes wide as he turned to his brother.

Dean's eyebrows pulled together. "What?"

"Cale – she's looking for you. That's why the notes."

Dean pulled his head back in an automatic denial, but Sam could see his eyes widen as the truth of what Sam was saying sank in.

"Joss," Sam turned to the dark-skinned man sitting across from them. "You said the deaths started just after Dean left?"

"_Wi_."

"Were they the same? I mean, were those men mauled?"

Joss ticked his head to the side. "Actually, not all of them. Judah, he said that they were connected. He knew it was the witch's sister early on. He was working to find a way to stop her when the first mauled body with a note showed up."

"How'd he know?" Dean asked, his voice uncharacteristically rough. Sam glanced over at him.

Joss shrugged. "Judah found ways to know things that people didn't want him to. You met him. You know."

Dean nodded with a small, appreciative smile. Sam looked at him.

"I thought you said the older one was a know-it-all," he said in a low voice to Dean. Joss' eyes grew sad as he answered.

"It is often the ones we think we know that surprise us. _Mon fre _he was a rogue, but he was also smarter than any of us gave him credit for," Joss said, his eyes tracking slowly out of the window.

Sam sat back in the hard wooden chair. He looked at Dean. Though the birth order was different, Joss could have been describing Sam's older brother, not Joss' younger one. Sam wondered if Dean sometimes purposefully put on the show of the charmer, the thief, the sarcastic smart alec just so that he could throw people off.

Dean rubbed his hands on his jeans, then clenched his fists around his knees. "So, she's looking for me. What do we do with that?"

Sam leaned forward again, unsure if Dean had truly moved into hunt mode or was just putting up a good show. Either way, he knew of only one way to proceed: play along and keep an eye on his brother.

"Well, I suppose we need to figure out why she wants you."

Dean lifted an eyebrow and shifted sideways to look at Sam, "Revenge not a good enough reason?"

Sam shrugged, "Well, sure, but…she started by just randomly killing and now she's killing guys that look like you and telling people that they're the wrong guy… I mean, that has to mean there's a bigger reason, right?"

Dean shrugged. "Why? She just wants to kill the guy who killed her sister. That's probably why Judah –"

Dean stopped suddenly as if his air had suddenly left him. His eyes widened and flew up to meet Joss'. Sam looked at Dean, then followed his eye line to Joss. Joss had paled and was staring open-mouthed at Dean. He shook his head wordlessly.

"What?" Sam asked, worry tingeing his voice.

"H-he was the one who figured out…" Dean started, still sounding like he couldn't get enough air. "We used my blood because…"

"_Si mo tè konnen ki sa, mo pa ta fe li,"_ Joss whispered.

Sam looked from Joss back to his brother, then grabbed Dean's arm, turning him. "Dean, what the hell is goin' on, man?"

Dean swallowed. He pulled his lower lip in, then took a deep breath. "When I said I'd been hurt on this job, Sam, I didn't exactly tell you the whole story."

Sam lifted his eyebrows and sat back, waiting.

"I had figured out we had to get her on holy ground, and I was able to get her to the church lot, but…" Dean faltered.

Joss spoke up. "She had Judah with her. And your brother had to fight for him."

Sam watched Dean remember. He faced the faux-wood table, his eyes in the past, landing on nothing, and he absentmindedly rubbed his hands on his jeans. He remembered Dean saying how Joss and Judah had reminded him of he and Sam, and knowing how raw his brother had been because of his leaving, Sam could only imagine what it was like for Dean to have to risk Judah's life to get the witch.

When Dean didn't go on, Joss spoke up in a soft, sad voice. "The battle was brutal, and I was only able to watch, not knowing how to help that wouldn't get my brother or yours killed. Dean overpowered her, but not before she cut him. He wasn't completely conscious when Judah and I made the circle… "

Sam's eyes flew over to Dean. Dean said nothing. He just kept staring at the table as if it held all the answers in the universe. Sam looked down, weighing his words, weighing his tone, coming to a realization he was kicking himself for not thinking of when Dean had first mentioned this back in the diner in Missouri.

"You let them use your blood in a ritual to get rid of the witch. Your blood… it's a link from you to her."

"There wasn't any other choice, Sam," Dean said softly. "We had to cut off her head with a blade of silver inside a circle of blood."

"Your knife?"

"My knife, but I wasn't able to do it… I could barely keep my eyes open."

"So who… oh. Judah."

Joss nodded. "Cale has her revenge on the person who killed her sister. She is after Dean for a different reason," he sighed and said again, this time in English, "If I had known that his blood would tie Dean to her, I never would have done it."

Sam sat back, absorbing the information. Processing, thinking, assessing, calculating…

"What the hell do we do now?" he finally spit out.

www

"So, a Voodoun has the power to shape-shift or transfer her soul into the body of an animal," Sam said, looking intently at the laptop several hours later.

Joss had returned to the bar and his family, Dean was sitting on the single bed, his back against the headboard, one led bent in front of him, the other hanging off the bed with his booted foot on the floor. He was cleaning their guns to keep his hands busy while he waited for Sam to pull together the information they needed to confront Cale. He could clean their guns in his sleep – he was a natural marksman, and had been comfortable around his father's arsenal at a very young age.

"Apparently, if it's the whole transferring soul thing, she has a…bodyguard of sorts."

Dean lifted an eyebrow and looked at Sam through his lashes. His hands never stilled. Sam looked up at his brother's silence and met his eye.

"You know, like werewolves and vampires."

Dean's eyebrow went higher. Sam sighed.

"Some legends claim that werewolves were the guardians of the vampires during the day when they were the most vulnerable. Guess that's what this bodyguard does – makes sure the Voodoun stays in one piece while she's off playing tiger."

"This bodyguard human?"

Sam shrugged. "Doesn't say. But it does say that her shape shifting magic protects her. She can't be killed in human form."

"Swell."

"But, she can be killed if you get to her body when her spirit is in the animal."

"Which means we have to also be ready to beat the Hulk's ass."

Sam nodded, "Pretty much."

"Well this job just gets better and better," Dean said, the loud click of the empty chamber of his .45 punctuating his sentence.

"Dean."

"What?"

"When did you call Dad?"

Dean looked up, confused. "When?"

"That time you were here before."

Dean looked down, realized he'd cleaned all the guns, and fisted his hands in his lap. He didn't know what to do with them. "Does it matter?"

Sam sighed. "Not really. I'd just like to know."

"After."

"After she was dead?"

"Yeah."

After she was dead, when he was hurt, when he was weak, when he needed his family. He'd reached out for his Dad and had been met with empty air. And he couldn't help but think that he'd been reaching ever since. Even seeing him in Chicago, feeling his father's arms around him in a warm hug of welcome, seeing his father and his brother talk – without yelling at each other – and fighting alongside him again hadn't been enough to shake the feeling of foreboding that had settled on him that night when he first discovered that his Dad had left.

Dean sighed and stood, collecting the guns and laying them on the rug just inside the door that separated their two rooms.

"In the morning I'll go check in with Joss and see where he thinks we might find Cale," Dean said, his voice low, thinking. "Then we end it."

Sam's eyebrows went up this time. "End it? So, what, we just ask her to shift into the body of an animal so that we can kill her?"

Dean refused to be baited. He toed off his boots at the foot of his bed, reached behind his head between his shoulders and pulled off his T-shirt, dropping it on top of his boots, then grabbed up his clothes to sleep in, heading to the shower with a "We'll figure something out, Sam."

Sam watched his brother go, noticing not for the first time the number of scars -- some old, pale and barely visible and some newer, raised and pink -- that crossed his brother's chest and back. Sam had a number of scars of his own, but nothing compared to Dean. Dean's were a result of jumping in front of the proverbial bullet, protecting his family for 22 years. Sam's were the result of the bullet actually hitting Dean, and removing the protection Sam took for granted would always be there. He sat at the table, staring at the closed bathroom door, suddenly too tired to do much else. After a moment, he heard the unmistakable sound of Dean singing. He leaned forward a bit to listen, trying to figure out what it was. When he recognized Kansas' "Carry On My Wayward Son," Sam had to grin. No matter how much life threw him around, Dean still bounced.

Sam made his way to his own shower then dropped into bed, willing sleep to claim him. His room was quiet. Even with the doors separating their rooms propped open, he felt oddly lonely. He hadn't realized how often he'd used the steady cadence of Dean's breathing to lull him to sleep. When sleep did come, it was stealthy. He wasn't aware that he'd fallen asleep; one minute he was looking at the ceiling in yet another unfamiliar room, the next he was in a dark room, peering down through a grate in the floor at a huddled figure in a shadowed corner of a small room. Something about that figure was important. He tried to get a closer look, but the grate pushed back and kept him away. Suddenly he had to see who that person was – everything in him knew it. Something horrible would happen if he didn't see who the person in the corner was.

_Sammy…_

His brother's voice echoed in his head, flowing from left to right as though Dean were running past him.

_Sammy… she's gonna win…_

He tried to call back to Dean, but could get no sound past his throat. He started to feel panic creep up his spine and wrap around his heart.

_Sammy… don't let her win…_

He tried to say Dean's name, tell him that she wouldn't win, he wouldn't let her, tried to tell him he was there, but he could barely breathe. He looked back at the shadowed figure huddled in the corner of the room, and was suddenly horrified to realize that the figure was looking up at him with Dean's green eyes in a sunken, emaciated face. He tried to call out, tried to reach through the bars to his brother, but it was as though someone held his hands down.

_Sammy…_

Sam struggled against the feel of those hands restraining him, denying him access to his brother.

"Sammy! Hey, easy! It's me!"

Dean's voice, solid, strong, and actually rather loud shook him from the nightmare's grip. He stopped struggling and opened his eyes, gasping for air. He could feel himself shaking and sweating at the same time. He saw Dean's worried face leaning over him, his strong hands holding his arms down, and heard his deep voice soothing, "There you go, easy, kiddo, I got you."

"Dean?"

"Yeah, you with me now, Sammy?"

"Holy shit."

"Some nightmare, huh?" Dean released his arms so that Sam could run a shaking hand over his sweaty face.

"Holy shit," he said again, his voice muffled by his hand.

"It wasn't a vision, was it?" Dean asked worried as Sam's shaking didn't immediately ease up upon waking. "You have any pain?"

Sam shook his head. "No pain. Just, man… honest-to-god freaky-ass nightmare."

Dean sat back, his hip against Sam's. "You think you'll be okay to sleep?"

Sam nodded, too ashamed to admit he didn't want Dean to leave. What was he, six?

Dean stood and walked from the room, glancing back once to see Sam swing his legs over the bed and sit on the edge for a minute, running his hands through his hair. Dean climbed back into his single bed, rolled to his stomach and shoved his hands under his pillow to grasp the reassuring grip of his knife. He closed his eyes, but didn't sleep. Instead he listened for Sam.

Five minutes later, Sam shuffled into his room. Dean cracked one eye open, watch Sam drop his pillow on the ground beside Dean's bed and wrap himself in his quilt, laying down quietly on the floor. Dean couldn't suppress his grin.

"'Night, Sam," he mumbled into his pillow.

"Night," Sam whispered back.

www

The next morning they were in the Coulee bar talking with Joss before it was actually open. Paul and Beth had not yet arrived, but Dean was on edge just the same, not wanting to run into Beth until he had something to tell her – something to offer her in exchange for the loss of her youngest son. Sam was drinking his second cup of coffee, leaning his forearms against the bar and Dean was pacing in an eight-step pattern behind him. Joss set Dean's fifth cup of coffee on the bar next to his brother, but Dean ignored it. He chewed the edge of his thumb, his eyes on the floor and subconsciously counted off the same eight paces, turned and resumed.

Joss lifted a brow at Sam. "He always like this?"

Sam nodded. "Pretty much."

Dean lifted his head, pausing in his trek, "What?"

"Always eight paces," Sam said. "Sure sign he's worried."

"Dude, I'm not worried. I'm thinking," Dean grumbled. He didn't miss Sam's shrug as if to say 'if you say so'. He purposely sat down next to Sam, and gulped the coffee in two drinks. He looked over at Sam out of the corner of his eyes. "Happy?"

Sam sighed and shook his head, returning his attention to Joss. "You think we can get into that house?"

Joss had printed up pictures of the house where he last knew Cale resided. He picked one up, and turned it to face him, lifting a shoulder. "Judah was certain of it. That's what got him killed."

Dean looked up. "He was killed at the house?"

"Running away from it."

Dean looked over at Sam. "So if she transfers her soul to an animal, and she's killing these people in her animal form, then that animal…whatever it is…has to be kept there."

Sam nodded, "Makes sense." He looked at Joss. "Any idea what it is?"

"Panther."

"You sure?"

Joss nodded. "When I found my brother –" he stopped, swallowed, then continued, "it was unmistakable."

Dean pulled his lip in, thinking. "Can she leave the panther's body if it's unconscious?"

Joss shrugged. Sam looked at him.

"Not a bad idea, man."

"We would just have to figure out how to get her in the animal…"

"But once there, we could tranquilize the panther, kill the Voodoun, easy as that."

Dean snorted, "Yeah. Easy."

"You're forgetting one thing," Joss spoke up.

"What?" they asked in unison.

"Riggs."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "That dude from Lethal Weapon?"

Sam shook his head and with an expression that said 'ignore him' he looked at Joss, "Who's Riggs?"

"Cale's mate."

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. "Bodyguard," they said together.

"You seen this guy, Joss?"

Joss looked at Dean, nodding solemnly.

"He a big guy?"

Joss nodded again. Sam grimaced. Dean shrugged it off and sniffed, "We can take 'em."

Joss shook his head.

"You don't think so?"

"He is not human," Joss said.

"Well, hell," Dean grinned. "In that case, we can kill him!"

"You can try."

Dean pushed away from the counter and Sam could tell his brother was done with the planning part of their hunt. He needed action – needed to hit something, shoot something, salt and burn something. In the instant that Dean stood from the bar stool and turned to face Sam with a grin of anticipation on his handsome face, Sam knew with complete certainty that his brother would never have a normal life. Sam meant what he said back in Chicago. When the hunt for the demon was over, he wanted to go back to school, back to cable TV and Pizza Hut. Back to the possibility of being with a girl and not risking her life because of his past. He wanted that for himself – and _had_ wanted it for his brother.

But Dean's pained words in reply – _I want us to be a family again_ -- had painted a picture that this moment had just put in Technicolor for Sam. Dean only wanted their family back, safe. Keeping them together, keeping them alive, that was his one ambition in life. He would go crazy if he had to somehow figure out how to live a life without a hunt, knowing what he knew. He was too young when that chance had been taken from him – he knew nothing else.

"Sam?"

Sam shook himself. "Yeah."

"You comin' or what? What are you looking at me like that for?"

Sam pressed his lips together, sighing. "No reason. Where're we going?"

"Check out the freak shack."

Sam slid off the stool and noticed that Joss had started to follow.

"Josiah," Paul Coulee rumbled from the back of the bar. Sam couldn't help the shiver that went down his spine at the sound of his voice. He also didn't miss Dean's smirk when he realized his brother had seen him flinch.

Joss turned, his face a question mark.

"You stay here."

"Papa, listen –"

"Stay."

Dean looked at Joss. He didn't want him in any danger. He also didn't want to tangle with Paul Coulee. "It's all right, man. We're just scoping out the place. We won't make our move until we know how to take out the Hulk."

Joss's jaw hardened. "I'll catch up."

Sam shook his head, "Really, man, it's okay –"

"I'll. Catch. Up."

Dean raised his hands in surrender and they left the bar. Making their way to the Impala, Dean grinned.

"Shut up," Sam said, anticipating the reason behind his brother's laugh.

"_It is useless to resist_," Dean quoted in a mock-Vader voice. He dropped into the driver's seat and shut the door. "Your face was priceless, man," he said with a chuckle.

Sam was surprised to see a smile on Dean's face. True smiles were so rare that when he flashed them, Sam felt like time slowed for an instant. He had to grin back.

"He sounds just like him…"

Dean tossed his head back in a laugh, "Sammy, you've killed werewolves, ghosts, banshees and poltergeists, but you never will get over that shiny black helmet."

"Scarred me for life, man."

www

"Front door or back door?"

"Wait – what? We aren't going in."

"What did you think we were going to do, hide out here in the bushes and watch?"

"Yes."

"Sammy, I don't hide."

Sam put a firm hand on Dean's shoulder and shoved him down.

"You do now. Look," he jutted his chin toward the house. He saw three men in dark suits enter. Each one was nearly as big as Paul Coulee, dark hair slicked back, dark glasses on even though the mid-day sun was covered by a thick layer of clouds.

Dean pulled his eyebrows together. "What is this, the Godfather?"

"Think any of them are Riggs?"

Just then, a man stepped out of the back door with a large metal bowl piled high with what looked to be chopped up meat. His shoulders were enormous, stretching taut the black T-shirt he wore.

Dean tapped Sam and indicated the direction he was walking. "Dude, WWF missed the boat on that guy. His arms are as big as my –"

"Dean."

"What? I was going to say leg. Jeeze, Sam."

"You see where he's going?"

"Looks like there's a cage back there."

The wild cry of the panther met their ears next. They watched the house for about another hour, but saw no sign of a woman that fit the description of Cale Joss provided to them. After no more movement from the house, Dean sighed.

"I say we head back, get our supplies, and come back here tonight. She's gotta be here somewhere."

Sam sighed. "What is the deal with always doing these things at night?"

Dean grinned at him. "Freaks come out at night."

They started to crawl back out of their hiding place in the cluster of trees just outside of a small wooded area across from the house when both caught sight of her simultaneously. She stepped out the back door and began to cross the small courtyard toward the panther's cage. Her hair was obsidian black and cut short, framing a small heart-shaped face and large almond-shaped eyes. She looked young and old at the same time. Her willowy frame seemed to glide as she walked.

Sam swallowed as he watched her. He felt Dean shift next to him and knew he brother's entire focus was on this woman, studying, evaluating…

"Man, she's hot," Dean whispered.

…and admiring, apparently.

"She's evil," Sam whispered.

"Well, there's a reason Luke was tempted to go to the Dark Side, Sam," Dean whispered back, a mischievous grin pulling his face toward his brother's. "Chics were hotter."

"Leia was hot," Sam argued, not taking his eyes from the Voodoun. He felt Dean shift again, straining for a better look as she moved toward the cages.

"Dude, she's his sister. That's just gross."

Sam ducked his head to look through the bushes at a different angle. "I can't believe we're actually having this conversation."

Cale slowed, bent over and picked something up from the ground and stopped to examine whatever it was.

"Watch out, sweetheart; we're about to drop a house on you," Dean muttered, his eyes boring into her.

Sam jerked his head sideways to look at Dean with surprise.

"What?" Dean said, not looking at his brother, but feeling his gaze. "We're from Kansas, Sam. Tell me you weren't thinking the same thing…"

Sam couldn't suppress his grin and he shook his head at his brother. His eyes caught on Cale's movement again. Just as she was about to disappear from view, she paused, chin lowered as if listening. Both Sam and Dean froze completely. Both barely breathed. She slowly turned and looked in their direction, then seemed to narrow her focus and looked directly at them. No, Sam realized, at Dean. She looked directly at Dean. And then she smiled.

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"That's your plan?"

"What?"

"We just bust in, just the two of us, and take out all those guys?"

Dean cocked the .45 and flicked the safety on, shoving it in the pocket of his leather jacket. He then put his knife and sheath in the back waistband of his jeans, looking up at Sam as he did so.

"Sure. We get rid of her entourage, force her to come after us by jumping ship into the panther."

"What are you, John Wayne? What about Riggs?"

Dean picked up the shotgun, cocking it with one hand. "That's what this is for."

"What if that doesn't work?"

"Damn, Sammy, why you gotta shoot holes in all my plans," Dean said, lifting a brow with a cocky grin. "You know they always work." He paused. "Sometimes."

Sam picked his own pistol up, put it in his pocket and automatically reached up to pluck the gun Dean tossed his way out of the air. As he did so, he caught sight of his brother's eyes. They were shining. Sam realized that Dean was having _fun_. They were arming up to fight a Voodoun with powers they had never before encountered and he was enjoying it.

"Why are you so happy," Sam groused.

"Why not? I got my trusty sidekick geek-boy brother with me and we're going out to rid the world of another bad guy. What else is there in life?"

Sam shook his head. Dean swung around the bed, clapping Sam on the shoulder as he passed him on his way out the door of the bedroom. Tucking the shotguns under their jackets so as not to attract unwanted attention, they walked out into the street, both sparing a sidelong glance down the block at _Katr_.

"Joss is gonna be pissed we didn't wait for him," Sam said.

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "I'll just wait here, then, while you go explain to his Dad why it's okay if he comes with us."

Sam shrugged. "I'm good. Let's go."

Dean chuckled and they fell into step down the darkening brick street. Despite an obvious four inch difference in height, they walked in beat – whether Sam unconsciously shortened his stride, or Dean lengthened his, their feet hit the bricks in rhythm unique to those who were so used to each other it wasn't clear where one ended and the other began. The night life of the French Quarter seemed to wrap around them – offering a protection the city seemed to know they needed. The smells of the spices used in the various restaurants' versions of gumbo, jambalaya, and dirty rice hit their noses as did the smell of beer and cigarettes from various people stumbling happily past them.

They walked by a bar as a bouncer opened the door, propping it open with a large stone to allow air to circulate. The sound of Aerosmith's "Dream On" washed out of the door and over the brothers. Dean glanced inside briefly, turning to Sam with a grin and flick of his eyebrows. Sam knew he'd seen one of two things: a pool table, or a good looking woman.

His brother's energy was rippling off of him in waves and Sam felt himself absorbing it as they walked. His concern for their being significantly unprepared seemed to fade in the power of Dean's confidence. He felt himself squaring his shoulders, mimicking Dean's loose limbed, but watchful stride. As they moved out of earshot from the music of the bar, Sam continued to sing it in his head, matching his steps to the beat in his head.

As they reached the edge of the sparse wooded area they'd hidden in earlier, both were on alert. Dean's eyes darted from the forest's edge, to the deep darkness in front of him, and back to Sam. Sam had pulled out his pistol, and was holding it low at his side, wary.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep," Dean whispered. "But I have promises to keep…" _And_ _miles to go before I sleep, _he added silently.

He moved forward, ahead of his brother, ignoring Sam's surprised huff of breath at his knowledge of Robert Frost. They made their way through the trees until they caught sight of the house looming ahead. It was dark, save for a light in the courtyard behind it. Dean was about to turn back to Sam and instruct him to flank him when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He heard Sam's gasp of pain seconds before his body instinctively reacted.

He reached out with his right arm in a sweeping motion, turning as he did so. His hand caught a forearm and he gripped it, using his forward motion to turn his attacker and slam him up against a tree face first. He was surprised to see that it was one of the thugs who had entered the house earlier that day. The man recovered quickly and came at Dean with a swift series of jabs and thrusts, all of which Dean expertly blocked. His arms sped up as the man began to telegraph his next blows. Dean thrust his right arm out straight and caught the man in the windpipe with the heel of his hand. He went down gasping and choking.

"Sam!" Dean called as he turned and caught a blow to his cheekbone from a second man. He stumbled back, but didn't fall. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me."

The next blow knocked him off balance and the second man took immediate advantage. With an expert sweep of his leg, he knocked Dean's feet out from under him and Dean went down hard onto the ground. Not daring to pause for breath, Dean used his hands up by his head to flip himself into a low crouch, then came up swiftly with a combination of punches designed to incapacitate his opponent. The man was powerful. He took the first two blows, then knocked away the third. Dean didn't pause in his forward motion. He grabbed the man's head and slammed it hard against a tree. The man stumbled, and Dean drew his hand back to deliver the final blow, surprised to feel a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

The first man had recovered enough to jump up and grab him from behind. As he grabbed Dean's arm and wrenched it behind his back, Dean had a moment to worriedly think _where the hell is Sam_ before his face and body were slammed up against a tree. He tried to push back, but the second man joined in on the ruckus. They spun him around, then slammed his back hard against the tree, the back of his skull hitting it with a dull thud. His vision began to swim. He tried to raise his fists again, but the second man slammed his knuckles into Dean's jaw, knocking him to his knees.

Dean shook his head. He had to get up, he knew it. Something was wrong with Sam if he was losing this bad in a fistfight. He tried to stand and ended up falling forward, catching himself with his hands. He heard a gasp of surprise and possibly of pain from one of his attackers. _It's about time, Sam,_ he thought. He just needed a minute… just a minute to catch his breath.

Another gasp, sounds of a struggle, and the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh. Then, he swore he heard the sound of a knife stabbing into someone. It had a distinct muffled pop that he'd heard countless times before. But that didn't make sense because he had the knife, not Sam… He felt hands on his shoulders, easing him back into sitting position.

Gentle hands probed the back of his head and he winced when they touched the bleeding gash back in his scalp. He tried to brush the hands away when they moved to his eyes, prying them open to check his alertness.

"M'okay," he mumbled, trying desperately to sound as if he meant it.

"No, you are not," said a voice that was definitely _not_ Sam's.

Dean's eyes flew open. "Where's Sam?" His voice sounded rough to his ears. Rough and worried.

Joss shrugged, "I do not know. I followed you, and when I got here, you were fighting two men. And losing," he added, grimacing at the bruising already showing up around Dean's left eye and on his forehead.

Dean started to push Joss away and stand. The world chose that moment to tilt dangerously to the side. To avoid sliding off the planet entirely, Dean eased back down until the world righted itself.

"Gotta find him," he said. _Where the hell was he?_

"We will find him," Joss assured him, using a torn corner of his shirt to press against the back of Dean's head.

Dean hissed, but the pain helped clear his head and his vision. "It's fine, Joss."

"That is what you said with the witch," Joss reminded him. "And it nearly killed you."

Dean looked past Joss to the two men on the ground. Both were very obviously dead -- one with Dean's knife sticking out of his side. His eyes flew to Joss. Joss's eyes were hard when he looked back at Dean.

"My brother is dead because of these men," he said. "That one, he had your knife, and I believe you would be where he is now had I not… taken it from him." Dean nodded, not caring to tangle further with a pissed off Creole.

"There were three," he realized suddenly. "Earlier today – there were three of them."

Joss looked over his shoulder into the darkening woods, then back toward the house. "I saw only these two."

_He took Sam_, Dean thought, remembering Sam's gasp of pain before the fight started. "I gotta get him back."

"What?"

"She got him," Dean said, pushed Joss away and tried again to stand, this time succeeding, though he had to steady himself against the tree.

"Who?"

"Cale"

"Why would she take Sam?"

Dean met his eyes. "To get to me."

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Dean had to admit that he was not in the best shape to fight a powerful Voodoo sorceress and her ginormous bodyguard, and he was even less prepared to fight a possessed panther should it come to that, but he had only one clear thought in his head as he advanced on the house, Joss at his side. _Sam, get Sam._ He focused on the front door of the house, looking strangely dark in the pitch of the night. He felt Joss carefully pull at his jacket sleeve.

"What?" he asked irritably.

"You are weaving," Joss said matter-of-factly. "You cannot do this, Dean."

Dean paused waiting for the two Joss' to blend back into one, then said, "He's my responsibility. Mine. I'm getting him out of there."

Joss studied him as carefully as he could in the darkness, then nodded, his jaw set. He reached for the shotgun in Dean's right hand, handing him back the knife. Dean looked at it, expecting the blade to be red. Joss had apparently wiped it off when he pulled it from the side of the dead man. Dean shoved it into its leather sheath, and tucked them back into his jeans.

"Let's do this," he said, moving as stealthily as he could up the steps to the front door. He paused, blinking. The pause let doubt ease into his heart and he looked back at Joss, who stood ready. _You're my brother, and I'd die for you…_ Dean took a breath and with strength he wasn't sure he still had, kicked the door open, striding intent on killing anyone – or _thing_ -- who got in his way.

It took only a second for him to realize that he was already out of his element. The interior of the house wasn't a house at all. It was a gutted warehouse with large support beams throughout and at the far end of the room a series of doors looked to be made of metal. Dean stopped so suddenly that Joss ran into him. He stepped forward, allowing Joss into the house and looked around. There were candles everywhere – hundreds of them, all lit. There were symbols both familiar and foreign to Dean painted on the floor, walls, and ceiling. Strange music filtered in from somewhere else in the house – if it had been a normal house, Dean would have guessed the kitchen.

He stepped further in, casting his eyes to either side, trying to figure out where Sam could be. The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked triggered his hunter's instincts and he hit the ground in a crouched roll, turning behind him as he did so and pulling his .45 out of his jacket pocket. Just before his finger squeezed the trigger, he froze. Riggs stood inside the door, his strong arm hooked around Joss' throat and the shotgun Joss had been carrying pointed at Joss' side.

"I wouldn't," Riggs rumbled. His voice held a faint accent that Dean couldn't put his finger on. His black hair was slicked back and reflected the light from the candles, but his eyes… his eyes were the eyes of a snake. The pupil was vertical and narrowed to the barest of slits.

"Good thing I ain't you," Dean growled, shifting his aim slightly and squeezing the trigger, the bullet hitting Riggs in the upper thigh.

He barely flinched. Instead, he flipped Joss around, and cracked him on the head with the butt of the shotgun. Joss dropped like a rock.

"Fuck," Dean whispered, and turned on his heel, taking off across the wide empty space of the interior of the house toward the doors. He heard Riggs behind him, following, unhurried. As if he knew there was nowhere for Dean to go and no way for Dean to fight. It was unnerving. Dean reached the first door and kicked it open. He froze. On the other side of the door, pacing in an oddly familiar pattern, was the panther.

"Oh, shit," Dean breathed, backing up two spaces. Directly into Riggs.

Riggs grabbed him by the upper arms picked him up and threw him across the room so that he hit the wall with a painful thud. His already wavering vision spun and he choked back the nausea that immediately followed. _This is not going well_, he thought, scrambling backwards from Riggs as the large bodyguard approached him.

"_Pronga to_, my love. We don't want to break him just yet."

Dean shakily pushed himself up against the wall, using it to help him gain his feet. His head gave a hard, painful throb and made him wince despite himself. He felt the warm trail of blood from his head running down the back of his neck into the collar of his shirt. He pinned his eyes on Cale as she walked gracefully toward him, the large cat that had been pacing behind the door next to her.

"You have been very difficult to find, Dean Winchester," she said his name slowly, as though tasting it. As she got right up to him, he could see her green eyes were the same as Riggs'… narrow pupils like a snakes… He suppressed a shudder and just stared at her. She cocked her head to the side, then reached up and trailed a finder down his cheek. He jerked his head back and away, then immediately regretted that as his vision spun once more. The cat growled low and sat off to Dean's right, watching.

"What do you want?"

"What do I want?" her lips slid into a sly smile. "Why, I want you Dean Winchester."

Just then, behind her, a different door opened, and two men stepped out with Sam struggling between them. _Sam_, Dean's heart lurched at the sight of his brother. His lip was split and bleeding, his cheekbone bruised, and there was blood dripping from one hand – its source not obvious to Dean. He instinctively stepped forward, but was stopped by Riggs' forearm to his throat, pinning him against the wall.

The men stepped closer to them so that Sam could see his brother, then shoved Sam roughly to his knees. Dean clenched his jaw against the pain in his throat from Riggs' arm, against the utter helplessness he felt watching Sam be overpowered, against the rage that threatened to consume him at the thought of Judah dead and Joss crumpled in a heap at the door. He tried to push against the arm holding him fast against the wall, but it was like pushing against an iron bar. Ironically, his own teasing voice echoed in his head, _it is useless to resist_.

The two men – and where had this other guy come from? Dean wondered – looked up at Cale. She nodded and they each began to pull on Sam's arms until he was stretched between them – almost as though they were intent on tearing him in half with their hands. Sam's head fell back and as Dean watched he grit his teeth against the pain, trying in vain to not cry out. _Bastards,_ Dean thought. He wanted to kill them all. He wanted to snap their necks and watch the light of life leave their eyes. He was not a murderer – he hunted and killed evil, not humans. But he would make an exception for these bastards that were hurting Sam. They relaxed for the barest of seconds, allowing Sam a breath, then pulled again. This time Sam screamed.

"OKAY!"

"Okay? Okay what?" the voice was a teasing purr, confidence in his inevitable submission evident in her words.

"Okay, you win."

"Dean, no," Sam's voice was strained, his lips swollen and bleeding and his eyes heavy with pain and exhaustion.

"Sam," Dean ground out as a warning.

"We win? We win you?"

"Yes, yes already! You win me. I'll go with you," Dean struggled to keep his voice even, to keep his eyes on Cale and her snake of a bodyguard, Riggs. He couldn't look at Sam, at the nameless, faceless men holding his brother's arms to their breaking point, at the defeated slump of his little brother's head. If he did, he would lose control and that would do nothing to help Sam.

_No, _thought Sam. He could hear Dean's dream voice in his head… _Sammy… don't let her win…_

"Well, how about that, Riggs," Cale simpered. "We win."

"Let him go," Dean growled between clenched teeth.

Cale turned in a fluid motion, the black scarves draped over her shoulder and around her neck swirling with the motion. "I'm sorry, but it sounded like you just…_demanded _something."

Dean strained against Riggs, the massive forearm against his throat nearly cutting off his air. He ignored him and pinned his dangerous eyes on Cale.

"Let. Him. Go."

Cale stepped up to Sam and grabbed a fistful of his hair, jerking his head up. Sam clenched his jaw, but cried out from the sudden pain. His eyes squeezed shut and his lips quivered from a mixture of rage and helplessness. He forced his eyes open and looked to his brother. Dean wasn't looking at him – purposefully keeping his eyes averted. His entire focus was on the Voodoun who was holding Sam's head captive. Dean's body visibly trembled with rage, his jaw was clenched, and the bruises around his eye and on his forehead only accented the deadly gleam in his green eyes.

"He is important to you, _wi_?"

Sam watched Dean freeze. He knew instantly what went through his brother's mind. Either way he answered could spell doom for Sam.

"Dean," Sam tried again. It was hard to talk through the pain in his throat from the treatment Dean was currently receiving at the hands of Riggs. "Don't."

At that word, Dean's eyes shifted to Sam's. He couldn't help it. He could never deny his brother, and that broken tone in his voice almost shattered Dean's resolve. He met Sam's eyes and saw there the hard determination he had expected. He wouldn't allow it. He couldn't let Sam go, not if there was something he could do about it. Dean looked back to Cale, knowing what she wanted to hear. Knowing she wanted one thing: to cause him pain for taking her sister from her.

"No," he answered, straining to keep the hard edge to his voice as Riggs pressed him harder against the wall. "He isn't important to me, but it's me you want, right? So just let him go."

Cale let go of Sam's hair, allowing his head to drop back weakly. She seemed to study him for a moment, then with a twisted, almost maternal expression she gently stroked his head and cupped his chin so that Sam had to look at her eyes, their vertical pupils flashing wide with wicked glee at her words.

"He lies, _to konprann_? You understand?"

Sam said nothing. She continued.

"He thinks it will save you," she said, and stroked Sam's cheek. Sam pulled away with disgust and he heard a painful breath huff out of Dean as Riggs apparently felt the need to slam him up against the wall again, unnecessarily reminding him who was in control.

Cale leaned in close to Sam, and to his horror, licked the blood from his lower lip. She pulled away and ran her tongue over her own lips with obvious pleasure, reminding him very much of the cat he knew she could become.

"What he doesn't realize," she continued, her voice a low purr as she turned from Sam and walked toward Dean. "Is that we could care less about you, young one. You were never to be killed." She stepped up behind Riggs, their duel presence crowded together and forcing Dean to take short, quick breaths due to their proximity.

"Say _adyeu_ to your brother, Dean Winchester," she said, rolling her shoulders slightly to the left so that if Dean moved his eyes in the slightest he would see Sam. "You are never going to see him again."

With those words, Riggs stepped back suddenly, releasing Dean. The abrupt release of pressure momentarily surprised Dean and his reaction was one breath too slow. He started to reach behind him for his knife, but before he could move Riggs' mallet of a fist swung and caught him on the temple. Dean collapsed on the ground, but wasn't completely out. He shook his head once, trying desperately to chase the grey from his vision. Riggs' boot met his ribs and flipped him to his back with the unmistakable sound of bones cracking. Dean tried to get a breath and push himself away. He heard his name in Sam's desperate voice, and knew as he watched Riggs' fist descend at an alarming rate toward his already bruised face, that he had done the right thing. His life for Sam's. It was the only way.

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_Translations:_

_**Si mo tè konnen ki sa, mo pa ta fe li. **If I had known that, I would not have done it._

_**Pronga to.** Be careful._

_I'm afraid that things are going to get a bit worse for our boy Dean… next few chapters will put him through hell…_


	3. Chapter 3

**_Disclaimer/Spoilers/Explanation of Creole language use:_** _See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: Thank you for the wonderful reviews – and to those anonymous reviewers I am not able to send a reply to, I appreciate your reading and taking the time to drop me a line. Please keep it up!_

_Thanks again to Kelly for her beta. You've been wonderful. _

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_All within my hands_

_Squeeze it in, crush it down_

_All within my hands_

_Hold it dear_

Within My Hands Part 3

He could hear the steady cadence of something dripping. He belatedly realized that he'd started counting the drips without realizing it. What was it? Water? No… it sounded… dull almost. And the sound carried with it a faint scent…a familiar scent, but not a welcome one. Something about the scent reminded him of pain.

Sam blinked slowly, his tongue automatically going to the raw mess that was his lower lip. He tasted blood, but the wound itself had stopped bleeding. He realized after a moment that the light that surrounded him was from candles. _Wax_, he suddenly realized. That's what he'd been hearing. He started to push himself up and winced at the sudden pain in his hand and the deep ache in his shoulders. He managed to roll over onto his back, staring at yet another unfamiliar ceiling. His arms burned… _What the hell_ –

"Dean," he croaked as his memory rushed back to him with the force of a tidal wave, crashing into him, stealing his breath, and threatening to pull him under. The last thing he remembered was seeing Riggs' fist slam into Dean's head, seeing his brother jerk from the impact, then go still. Completely still. Sam had tried to call out to him, but the men holding him like he was a rope in a tug-of-war contest instantly dropped his arms and the relief from the pressure was so great that his vision had wavered and then failed him.

He rolled to a sitting position and looked around. Not five feet from him, Riggs sat in a crouch, watching him. Sam tried to stifle the jerk of surprise and uncomfortable shudder at the knowledge that he'd been watched while unconscious.

"Where's my brother?" his voice was raw and muffled through the swelling in his lip.

Riggs lifted one shoulder. "Around." He stood and Sam had to tip his head back to keep his eyes pinned to his face. "He shot me, you know."

"Good," Sam said. Riggs chuckled and walked in a slow circle around Sam.

"Cale said to leave you alone. We might need you later. But I haven't killed anyone in awhile."

"Save that for the panther, do you?"

Riggs finished his circle and stood with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, staring down at Sam. "She likes to get her way," he said, shrugging at Sam.

"You should probably listen to her, then," Sam said, contemplating exactly how he was going to get on his feet and get across the entire house to the door before Riggs' brutal hands wreaked havoc on his battered body.

"She just needs him to be afraid. And lies can make a person fear just as much as the truth."

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "What are you a demonic Zen Master?" Dean's sarcasm was starting to rub off on him.

Again, Riggs chuckled. It sounded like a low rumble of thunder, the warning before the lightening struck. "I might keep you around. You amuse me."

"Yay for me."

"Not that you could do anything about it anyway," Riggs said, taking a step toward Sam.

"No, but I might," said a voice off to Sam's left. Both Riggs and Sam looked in surprise at Joss, standing just beyond Sam, blood running down the side of his dark face, his deep brown eyes almost on fire with hatred as they stared at the large man in front of him. In his hands he held Dean's shotgun, aimed low at Riggs' middle.

The boom of the shotgun echoed through the large empty room. Sam instinctively ducked and saw the blast strike Riggs square in the chest. He flew back and hit one of the large beams that were scattered throughout the room. Joss was a blur of motion, reaching down for the back of Sam's collar as he cocked the shotgun again. Sam scrambled backwards and to his feet.

He stood next to Joss and they backed away from Riggs, Joss keeping the shotgun trained on the bodyguard the entire time. To Sam's horror, Riggs slowly stood and began to advance on them. His snakelike eyes flashed and his lips twisted into a snarl.

"I forgot about you, boy," he growled, gaining ground on them.

"Shoot him again," Sam commanded under his breath. Joss seemed to be unable to tear his eyes from Riggs' face, and though he held the gun at the ready, his finger rested harmlessly on the side of the trigger.

"It was _tu fre_ we killed, was it not?" Riggs sneered. "How he ran… but not fast enough…"

"Joss!" Sam's low bark of a command made Joss jerk. "Shoot. Him. Again."

Joss' eyes didn't waver, his finger didn't move.

Riggs came closer even as the boys continued their backward motion. Sam glanced hastily over his shoulder. The door was only a few feet away now.

"Your brother… he screamed when she grabbed him… when her claws dug in… when she sank her teeth into his flesh," Riggs said, his eyes flashing, taunting Joss. Sam's near frantic glances did nothing to permeate the apparent hold Riggs had on him. "He called out for you… but he died anyway. As will you," Riggs was barely a foot away from the end of the shotgun. Sam was two heartbeats from grabbing the gun and shooting the cocky bastard himself when he saw a muscle in Joss's jaw bunch. "Because you cannot kill me with that…"

"No?" Joss said, low and dangerous. "I will have to settle for causing you pain." His finger slid over the triggers and he pulled both simultaneously. The blast blew a visible hole in Riggs, and the giant man flew back and landed with an echoing thud on his back. Joss immediately turned and pushed Sam out of the door.

Sam stumbled a bit in his haste and shock. "You were… that whole time… you just wanted to bring him closer?!"

"Go, Sam!" Joss yelled, pushing him harder out onto the porch and down the steps. "It won't kill him, but it will give us time to get home."

_Home_… _Dean_. "Joss wait," Sam panted as they sprinted across the street and into the woods the boys had cut through just hours before. "I need your help."

"Later. First we must get to my father."

Sam literally skidded to a halt, grabbing Joss' arm. "No, now! They took Dean… Riggs said he was around… b-but I –"

Joss fisted his free hand in Sam's jacket and pulled the younger man close to him. "I know, Sam. I know, but we _must_ get to my father."

Sam, surprised at Joss' vehement insistence, could only stare. Joss kept his fist in Sam's jacket and started to move again, away from the house.

"No, no," Sam shook his head, forcing Joss' grip free with his bloody hand. He started to turn back and Joss grabbed him and shoved him roughly up against a tree.

"Stop it, Sam," he said, his jaw clenched. "You cannot help him right now."

Sam was desperate. The acute burn in his arms, the throb in his face and from the cut on his hand, and the terrific ache in his chest filling the hollow where Dean always seemed to be, threatened to overpower him. He felt helpless tears build in his eyes.

"You don't understand," he said, hating the way his voice shook. "He's all I got. He would kill himself to get me back. I just can't… _leave_ with him in there."

"_Mo konmprann_. I do. He did the same thing, though I told him not to."

Sam looked at him. "What?"

"He was…" Joss met Sam's eyes. "Hurt. And he wasn't thinking clearly. He went after you and gave her what she wanted. He shouldn't have done this…"

But Sam knew. He knew Dean could have done nothing else. _Sammy… don't let her win…_

Sam swallowed. "I gotta find him, man."

Joss sighed and released his hold on Sam. "I know, Sam. And that is why we must go to my father. He will help us… He must."

He patted the front of Sam's chest with the back of his hand in such a familiar _Dean_-like gesture that Sam felt his throat constrict. Joss turned and continued his hasty retreat back to _Katr._ Sam followed, trying to focus on the man in front of him, on the task ahead of him, on the pain in his lip and hand, anything _anything_ other than the dream-image of his brother's emaciated face and hollow eyes staring up at him through the grate from the corner of that small, windowless room.

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At first he couldn't tell if he was awake. The darkness was so complete that it looked the same when he opened his eyes as it did when they were closed. He kept blinking anyway because it reminded him to keep breathing. Breathing was good. Breathing was necessary – no matter if it felt like his side was on fire with every inhale, or if his head throbbed painfully with every exhale. Not breathing meant giving up, and Dean Winchester did _not_ give up.

Once he managed to convince himself to continue with the supposed natural act of breathing, he took stock. He could tell that his long sleeved shirt and jacket were gone, but he'd been left with his T-shirt. He had his jeans on, but no boots or socks. He was laying on his left side, which was a blessing because he could feel several cracked and perhaps one broken rib on his right side. The floor he lay on was cold and hard… cement? Stone? And… they'd taken his knife. He sighed. He really liked that knife.

It was a damp room. Reminded him of the mill house… and the banshee's basement… and waking up in the complete darkness there with his arms stretched to their limit, his side bleeding, and Sam's voice in his head. _Sam_. Had she kept to her part of the bargain? Was he free? Don't go there… focus on here… on figuring out a way _out_ of here…

"There is no way out," a voice filled the space he was in. Dean still couldn't tell if it was a room, a cage, or what, but the voice was everywhere. It was slightly disconcerting, because the speaker could be sitting two feet away and he wouldn't know.

He swallowed, not trusting his voice.

"Here is where you are, and here is where you stay, Dean Winchester," Cale's voice purred in the pitch.

Dean decided that confronting his attacker while lying on his side probably wasn't the best defensive position. He put his right hand flat against the cold surface, and biting his lip against the instant cry of pain that threatened to escape, pushed himself up. He was able, he noticed immediately, to lean back against a wall. He moved his feet out in front of him and slowly pulled his knees toward him so that he was balanced by his feet and his back.

"What –" he started, his voice a raw croak, "What do you want from me?"

"Fear."

The theatrical, disembodied voice effect was wearing on his nerves. He wanted to see her, just for an instant. Just to be able to…glare at her. Almost as soon as that thought formed in his mind, brilliant, blinding light flared all around him and he cried out from the searing pain that shot through his unprepared eyes and seemingly straight into the wound at the back of his head. His eyes instantly watered from the assault and his hands flew up to protect them, his palms burying themselves into his eye sockets.

"Here I am," the voice was hard this time. "Look."

Dean didn't move. The light was too bright, too intense. He could hear himself panting. When invisible hands gripped his wrists and forced his hands from his eyes, he instinctively tried to resist. Echoing the growl of a predatory cat, the grip increased in pressure, forced his hands down and pinned his arms to the wall behind him. Dean blinked rapidly, painfully in the harsh light.

"LOOK!"

Dean's eyes burned. He lifted them to see her standing across the room , the apparent source of the intense light. She was still wrapped in the hundreds of flowing black scarves, her dark hair framing her face and her almond-shaped eyes flashing dangerously and with something akin to victory.

She spread her arms apart at her sides her palms facing outward. "Go on, Dean Winchester. Show me your courage." It was a sarcastic sneer of a challenge.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Dean tossed out, his eyes open to mere slits, peering at her through his lashes.

"I need not courage. I am magic," she growled.

"Whatever you say, sweetheart."

Dean had realized two things very quickly in this little interchange. His only hope was to get her to shift into the cat so that Sam – whom he _knew_ was looking for him – had a chance to kill her sorry ass. And, he couldn't think about that anymore because apparently she had some way of reading his thoughts. He had to block her… had to keep her out of his head.

"You will fear," she predicted.

"No fucking way, lady," Dean growled this time, his narrowed gaze piercing in his anger. She had shown her hand way too early in the game. She wanted his fear – it was the one thing she would not get from him. Dean was an excellent architect of internal walls. He began to build.

Cale was across the room with her face inches from his in the blink of an eye. "You _will_ fear, Dean Winchester," she purred low in her throat, her hot breath on his face. He tried to pull his head away, but the wall behind him prevented it. "Give in to the fear and your end will be swift. Fight it and the pain will last forever."

With those words, she was gone and with her the blinding light. He was immediately consumed again by the darkness, and the invisible vise-like grip on his arms disappeared. He pulled his hands from the wall, waited a beat, then took a breath.

"Freak!"

Time passed agonizingly slowly for Dean. He tried not to think about the different ways Cale might invent to trigger his fear. He didn't think she would be able to take him up in a plane… besides it would be a bitch to get the panther on board. He chuckled at his own humor. He was starting to get cold sitting in his T-shirt and jeans on the hard floor. The cold seemed to seep up from his bare feet and as the shivers began, his damaged ribs protested. He decided to explore.

He felt along the wall behind him in either direction and realized that it was only about five feet long. His fingers reached a corner. He decided to go left first… mostly because that side hurt less. He pulled his legs underneath him and got to his knees. It had been impossible to see when Cale decided to turn on the sun, but it had appeared that she was standing in the room, so he should be able to stand without ramming his head on anything.

Pressing his right arm against his ribs he straightened slowly to his full height. He reached his left arm above him and touched only air. He put his left hand against the wall and began to slowly move forward in even strides. He counted as he walked. When he got to eight he felt an opposing wall and he turned. The opposing wall was also about five feet long, and in another eight steps, he was back to the wall he started from.

That gave him pause. He was in a rectangular-shaped room, exactly eight paces long. He decided not to think about that too much right now. He knew if anything made him wiggy, she would pounce on it. And he would _not _let her win. _Block her,_ he commanded himself. He thought about the banshee basement again. When he and Sam were connected through the banshee's curse… that time he'd been able to hear Sam's voice, his words, but not his thoughts.

He put his back in the corner of the box and slowly, maintaining the pressure on his ribs as support, slid down the wall to sit with his legs out in front of him. He licked his lips, acutely aware of the thirst building at the back of his throat, and started to sing.

"_There was a friend of mine on murder, And the judge's gavel fell, Jury found him guilty, Gave him sixteen years in hell, He said "I ain't spending my life here I ain't living alone. Ain't breaking no rocks on the chain gang. I'm breakin' out and headin' home"_

As he sang, he thought again that he wanted to see her, this time to do something other than glare. He waited for the pain of the light… nothing. Still, she could be toying with him.

"_Gonna make a jailbreak, And I'm lookin' towards the sky, I'm gonna make a jailbreak, Oh, how I wish that I could fly. All in the name of liberty, All in the name of liberty. Got to be free."_

This time he thought about his car. He pictured her in all of her black, shiny glory. And he waited. Darkness and silence.

"You cannot block me forever," the voice purred, this time, though, Dean could tell it was from above. He looked up and was surprised to see her face illuminated by what looked like faded candlelight peering down from about ten feet above him. Her eyes glowed with a light of their own.

"Watch me."

"No one is that strong, Dean Winchester. My magic will consume you."

"Wanna bet?"

Murmuring words too swift to understand and too low to hear, she lifted a hand with an almost delicate wave of her fingers. Dean had no time to prepare, to brace himself, to block her. The vice-like grip that had pulled his hands from his eyes wrapped around his chest and began to squeeze. His cracked ribs protested and he could feel them about to snap. The broken rib pierced painfully through the skin on his side and he cried out as he felt the skin tear from the inside out. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't brace himself, and his walls were starting to waver.

As quickly as it came, though, the grip released and left him panting, sweating, and bleeding. He lifted heavy green eyes up to the hole above him.

"That all you got," he rasped. She narrowed her eyes at him and stepped back. He saw a large dark arm reach across the grate and pull a door down. "Bitch," he gasped out as the soft candle light gave way to darkness.

He tried to sit as still as possible. His body began to tremble. His side was a firebrand of pain, and he reached a shaking hand to his side where he had felt his rib stab through. The tear was small – less than an inch long – but it burned. He could feel the lump under his skin where the displaced bone protruded.

He swallowed the nausea that rose in his throat when he touched the break, and slowly tipped his head back against the wall. He knew what she was doing. She would try to break him physically first. But she didn't know who she was dealing with. He'd had worse than this…

_That's right, Dean_, he told himself. _You've had worse. This is nothing._

The trembling increased as he felt his T-shirt slowly soak up the blood from the tear in his side. He couldn't see anything, but he knew if he could it would be blurry. He blinked against the dizzy spin in his head, made worse somehow by the fact that he could feel it but couldn't see anything. He suddenly wished for Sam, and then immediately cursed himself for allowing that thought to seep from behind the wall. He would not let her use Sam to break him. It would _not_ happen.

Sam was out. Sam was free. Sam was alive. That's what mattered.

He tried to pull his freezing feet under his denim clad legs to warm them, but the pain in his side at the movement made his head swim again and he groaned aloud. Unable to keep himself upright, he slid slowly down the wall until he lay in a heap on his left side. He tried to steady his breathing. He felt the edges of consciousness sliding shut. He could practically hear Sam's voice in his head from a time not so long ago…

_Breathe. With me. Breathe…_

As he slipped under the wave of awareness, he found himself wishing for his brother's hand in his.

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Sam's hand ached. He and Joss had reached _Katr_ in record time and Joss led him through the throng of patrons, past his mother's surprised look behind the bar and through the far door marked 'Employees Only'. Sam stood silently just inside the door, unconsciously touching his split lip and examining the cut across his hand. He couldn't even remember how he'd gotten it, but it ached now.

Joss had opened a door at the back of the room to what was apparently his father's office and was engaged in a heated debated in Creole. Sam didn't need to understand the words to hear the meaning behind them. Joss needed his father's help and for whatever reason, Paul was reluctant to give it. Sam listened for a few minutes, thinking about the stubborn man that had raised him and Dean. John was confrontational, obstinate, and sometimes downright mean, but if Sam had come to him with a request of this magnitude, he had no doubt that John would be arming up at this point. He might be swearing a lot and threatening to lock Sam in his room for a week, but he wouldn't hesitate to help.

Dean had inherited that from their father… Sam felt his chest tighten at the thought. That's what got him in this mess to begin with. Sam stepped forward with the intent to break up the family battle and enter a plea of his own for Paul's help in saving Dean's life. When he stepped through the doorway, he had to swallow his gasp.

Joss and Paul were standing, facing each other, in front of what Sam would swear was an alter. An alter with both familiar and foreign symbols painted on it, an ancient looking cross, and vials of what looked like… blood. He also saw other things that looked like bones with black etchings on them.

"_Tanpri, _Papa." Joss was saying. "Please, he does not have much time. And if I am right, then neither do we."

Sam took a breath. "I'm going to get my brother…you guys coming or what?"

Joss jumped, but Paul merely lifted his eyes to regard Sam. His skin, a darker shade than Joss', seemed to only enhance the midnight-blackness of his eyes. Sam fought to resist the shudder that wanted to ride his spine as he stood under the scrutiny of Paul Coulee.

"You must be prepared, Sam," Paul rumbled.

Sam nodded, although he wasn't sure what Paul was talking about. It didn't really matter. If being _prepared_ meant that he had to slay a dragon, he was up for it if it meant getting Dean back.

"There is dark magic here," he continued, his eyes never leaving Sam, his deep voice filling the room with energy.

"Yeah, uh," Sam's eyes shifted to the alter. "I got that."

Joss shook his head. "This is not dark magic, Sam. This is worship."

Sam lifted his hands. "If you say so, man. All I care about is getting my brother."

"To do that, we must slay the Voodoun."

Sam practically bounced on the balls of his feet. "Fine."

Paul moved around his son and walked over to stand in front of Sam. Sam took one step back.

"Do you know what a _chauchemar_is, Sam?"

Sam shook his head.

"She is a nightmare witch."

Sam's eyebrows pulled together. "Nightmare witch?"

Joss also faced Sam, but leaned a hip against this father's desk in a less imposing manner than his father. "When an evil witch dies, she can become a _chauchemar_. She travels in dreams and attacks you in your sleep. To exist, she must be called."

Sam's eyebrows went up. "Called how?"

Paul spoke again. "Through a spell. A powerful one."

_Powerful spell like a shape-shifting Voodoun spell?_ Sam groaned inwardly.

"What does that have to do with Dean?" He was worried, impatient, and hurting. He wanted answers and he wanted action. He wanted his brother back.

"The _chauchemar_ has to be manifested through fear… to come alive…"

Sam ticked his head to the side as Riggs' words tumbled back through his mind. _She just needs him to be afraid… _He swallowed hard and looked to Joss. _Your blood…it ties you to her_… Sam watched Joss' face still as the realization of what this meant to Dean stole over Sam.

"She killed Judah for revenge," Sam said, his voice sounding hoarse to his ears. "But she kept Dean alive so that she could…bring her sister back as this…nightmare witch."

Paul and Joss nodded in unison.

"Riggs said she wanted Dean afraid."

Joss tightened his lips on his teeth as if he'd tasted something extremely potent. "She will break him, Sam. And she will plant her spell, and his nightmares will make the _chauchemar_ real. And then we will all suffer."

Sam had started shaking his head the moment Joss said the word 'break'. "No. You're wrong," he said. "You don't know my brother. Stubborn doesn't even begin to describe him."

Paul looked at him sadly, "Everyone has their limit, son."

Sam's jaw clenched and he looked at Paul, willing the tears of worry from his eyes. "Well, then we damn well better get to him before he reaches it."

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He had no idea how much time had passed when he opened his eyes again. He only knew that it was still dark. And he was tired of the dark. Sam had said once that it seemed like they lived their life in the dark. At the time he shrugged it off as Sam's brood, but he was starting to see where his brother had a point. Sometimes he simply wanted a little light…just to see his way clear.

This time when the light blazed through the tiny box of a room without warning, he was still huddled on his side and could block the blinding light with the crook of his arm.

"What the hell! Ever heard of a lamp, lady?" he grumbled.

"My patience is wearing thin, Dean Winchester."

"Well that's just too damn bad isn't it?"

"Remember," her voice an angry growl, "You brought this on yourself."

The light was gone and Dean panted with relief. He'd forgotten in the moment of waking to block her when he wished for light. He tried to push himself up but his arm trembled with the effort. His entire body trembled. He was freezing and hurting, and he could feel that the blood from the tear in his side had dried sticking his T-shirt to his skin.

He rolled slowly to his back, and wrapped his arms across his chest. He was trying to think of another song to taunt her with while he sat happily thinking Dean-thoughts when he heard a distinct snuff and low growl. He froze. He knew that sound. He held his breath and listened again. The growl turned into a short scream reminiscent of a mountain lion. Sweat immediately broke out on his forehead and he slowly, very slowly, pulled himself into a sitting position.

He held very still, aware that it would be impossible for him to see the large black cat, but that the cat, enhanced by Cale's insane Voodoo magic, would most likely be able to see him. He had no idea how to tell if it was just the cat… or if it was Cale. He felt the swish of the cat's tail against his bare feet and slowly pulled them toward him. The pain in his side stopped that motion with an abbreviated whimper as he bit his lip. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing shallow. Wiry whiskers brushed his face and he felt the cat's exploratory huff of air across his ear.

He swallowed. "Nice kitty," he murmured, his voice pitched to the low cadence he often reserved for women. "You don't want to eat me… I'm too tough… all muscle…"

He kept his voice low and calm. He felt the air move around the claw before he felt the dull sting in his shoulder. The cuts weren't deep – as if the cat wasn't looking to kill… just explore. But they were enough damage to his already traumatized body and he couldn't still his cry of pain. He tried to push away, and found he had accidentally positioned himself in the corner. Silently, he begged the cat to get bored and leave.

"You brought this on yourself," Cale's voice whispered in his ear. He didn't feel the cat again, and after a few more moments of holding breath, allowed himself to relax.

"Had to be a panther," he grumbled breathlessly. "She couldn't have shifted into a bunny or a mouse or something…"

He started to shiver again, and recognized the feverish feeling of chills. He wasn't surprised that his injuries were beginning to betray his façade of strength through a fever – for all he knew he'd been down in the box for days. The darkness began pressing against him in an almost physical attempt to suffocate him. He drew in short breaths and resisted the urge to slump to the side again.

"I don't want Dean anywhere near this… I never should have sent him down here in the first place…"

_What the hell?_ That was his father's voice. It was coming from above him. He slowly rotated his neck so that he could look up, ignoring the incessant throb at the back of his head. The trapdoor had been pulled away and he could see candlelight shining dimly through the grate above.

"He isn't ready… he'll let me down, he'll let Sam down… he'll get Sam killed and I can't allow that to happen…"

"Dad?" his voice was a low rasp. This had to be a trick. His father wasn't in New Orleans. He'd left them in Chicago. He left them to protect them… It was for the best.

"I don't know why I ever thought I could leave Sam with him… Dean's never going to be fast enough, sharp enough… I just need to take Sam and get out of here. Dean will just have to figure out how to get by on his own…"

Dean closed his eyes, a shiver of pain unrelated to his wounds slicing across his heart. _It's not real it's not real it's not real…_ He reached over to his shoulder and felt for the cat's claw marks. They had already stopped bleeding, thankfully. He fisted his hands and opened his eyes. He almost cried out in startled surprise to see his father's face peering down at him through the grate.

"You got yourself into this mess, Dean. You never could follow orders."

"Wh-what?" All he had ever done was follow orders, do what his Dad wanted, take care of Dad, take care of Sam… he knew nothing else. "Dad, what are you saying?" He trembled as a strange heated shiver ran down the length of his spine.

"I'm saying that I'm leaving you, Dean. I'm gonna go find Sam, and we're out of here. I'm not risking him anymore – you never could watch after him right."

Dean's eyebrows pulled together. Those were not his Dad's words. John would not allow failure – and Dean 'not following orders' or 'not taking care of Sam' would be a failure, considering John had trained him to do both since he was four years old. Now, he was pissed. "Fuck you, Cale! Not gonna work."

As he stared, John's face morphed into Cale's. She smiled. When she spoke though, it was his father's voice coming from her mouth. "Yes. Yes it is."

The trapdoor shut leaving Dean shivering in the dark.

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"Josiah!"

Sam felt Joss flinch at the shrill cry of his mother's voice. They stood side by side, staring into a large steamer trunk sitting next to the alter, filled with about as many weapons as the Impala. Sam and Dean had lost their weapons in the earlier fight, except for Dean's sawed-off shotgun. He had a few more in the trunk that he could gather, but first, Joss insisted he look through their trunk.

"What has happened to you?" Beth Coulee advanced quickly into the room, looking small but terrible in her worry and anger. She spared a glance at Sam, apparently not harboring the same feeling of anger and resentment toward him as she did his brother. She reached her oldest son, taking his face in both of her hands and brought it down so that she could look at the gash on his head closer.

"Why wasn't I told of this," she asked, this time directing her wrath to Paul. Sam and Joss remained silent.

"I didn't see the need, Beth," Paul rumbled. He was sitting at his desk, searching through the pages of a large black book and had put the vials from the alter in front of him. He looked up at his wife, his eyes blank and face impassive.

Sam watched Beth's eyes scan the vials, skip to the book, then her head whipped back to the open trunk and her son. "No," she said. "No, this is not happening."

"_Maman_," Joss began, but Sam cut him off.

"Beth, listen," his voice was soft and gentle, his posture humble, but the intensity of his eyes could not be ignored. "I have to get my brother back. If I don't, more people than just Dean will be at risk."

Beth's jaw hardened and she looked up at Sam, her eyes brittle. "Your brother killed my son."

Sam reacted before he could curb himself, before he could consider her pain. "Wrong!" his voice was a low roar, and he took a step toward Beth, not noticing Joss tense, or Paul begin to rise from his chair. "Dean _saved_ your son from the witch. Saved him. Judah was killed long after Dean left."

"Because of what Dean started."

"Listen," Sam's voice became dangerous. "You don't know what you're talking about. Evil simply is. Dean has spent his _life_ fighting it. If he could have prevented what happened to Judah, he would have." He was visibly trembling, holding his body in check from advancing on her further. "He is one of the good guys, Beth. He doesn't deserve this… the nightmares."

Beth blinked once when he said that, her expression finally cracking. She flicked her eyes to his right and Sam was startled to see that Paul had come around the desk to stand next to him. At first he thought it was to stop him from saying more to Beth, but as Paul returned his wife's gaze, Sam realized he had stood beside him. Supporting Sam with his massive silence.

"Nightmare?" Beth asked her husband.

"The Voodoun is going to call the _chauchemar,_" Paul told his wife.

Beth covered her mouth with her hand, and looked back at Sam. "Through his brother?"

Paul nodded. The change in her expression was immediate and caused Sam more worry than her anger had. She reached out a hand to Paul who caught it and squeezed it once, soothingly, then she drew it back. It was such a natural, instinctive move that it made Sam's heart ache for a moment, wondering if his Mom had been that way with John. If she had reached out to him for comfort in a moment of doubt, trusting that he would reach back. The gesture spoke of closeness, of love, of home. Throughout their vagabond life growing up, Sam had had many places to live, places that felt familiar, reassuring – Pastor Jim's, Caleb's cabin, the Impala… but he had only known one home. Dean.

"Boys," she said, her voice shaking a bit. "Come with me. I will get you fixed up."

"I'm okay," Sam immediately replied. The more time they wasted preparing and getting their wounds tended, the longer Dean was in the clutches of Cale.

"You are not, and you will come with me. I have nursed enough wounds to see when pain has become a distraction." She turned from them to walk out of the room. At the door she paused, looking back at Sam. "You cannot afford distraction, Sam."

Joss followed his mother, and with a look back at the steamer trunk, Sam followed Joss. Beth led them to the now-deserted kitchen, cleaned Sam's cuts and put two stitches in the broken skin below his lip, then cleaned and wrapped the cut on the back of his hand. She did the same for Joss. While she worked, Paul brought the large black book he'd been looking through. He looked at Joss.

"_Sa tchob byen_?"

"I'll be fine, Papa," Joss said. "What have you found?"

"It is as we suspected," Paul replied, shifting a hip onto the counter top and opening the large book. "Riggs is part demon. He cannot be killed by conventional weapons. However, he is tied to the Voodoun in his oath of protection."

"Tied to her how?" Sam asked flexing his fingers to make sure the wrap hadn't hampered his movement.

"The blood of her victims is poison to him."

Sam narrowed his eyes in thought. "That's why he leaves the killing to the panther," he muttered.

"And he can be killed when the poison is delivered with silver," Paul finished and looked up at Sam.

Sam rubbed his unbandaged hand over his eyes. "Where are we going to find blood from his victims?" he wondered aloud.

He caught the look shared by the three Coulees. "What?"

"Judah," Joss supplied, softly.

Sam pulled his eyebrows together and tilted his head to the side. "Come again?"

Paul took a deep breath and let it out. "Our religion, Sam," he said, his rumble immediately catching Sam's attention, "requires a gift of blood when a loved one dies."

Sam's eyes widened. "The vials?"

"Paul," Beth began, going to her husband and placing a small, pale hand on his dark cheek. "We can't… it's Judah."

Paul regarded her solemnly. "Exactly."

"_Maman_," Joss spoke up. "He died trying to prevent this very thing from happening. He deserves to be the solution."

Beth pressed her lips together to still their trembling. She nodded, unable to speak, and turned to walk from the room. At the doorway, she paused again and looked at Sam. "If you get to your brother in time… bring him here. I will care for him."

Sam swallowed and nodded gratefully.

"Come," Paul said, standing and closing the book with a loud snap. They returned to the office and Paul began to remove weapons, talking as he did so.

"We must wait until the Voodoun shifts before we take out Riggs," he handed a crossbow and quiver of arrows to Joss. "If we move too early, she will know she is unprotected and will not shift, and we will lose the chance to kill her," he handed a bundle about ten inches in length to Sam. "We will have to move quickly because it will be in the form of the cat that she will complete the spell. If she completes it before we defeat her…"

"What?" Sam prompted when Paul trailed off.

"Then it will be up to your brother to defeat the _chauchemar_. And if she is able to break him –"

"She won't," Sam asserted as he unrolled the bundle of throwing knives, picking up each one and finding the balance by resting the blade flat-centered on the tip of his finger and moving it back and forth. "Dean won't give up," he looked up, catching each pair of Coulee eyes with his determined ones. "He doesn't know how."

"Does he know how to be afraid," Joss asked quietly as he took each silver-tipped arrow from the quiver and dipped them into the vials set across Paul's desk.

Sam took a breath. Then another. He'd felt Dean's fear once. Felt it so acutely that it had doubled him over in physical pain. He knew that for the Voodoun to get Dean vulnerable enough to plant the spell in his mind she was going to have to wear him down to almost nothing. He ached at the thought of what that would mean for his brother. Since Jess, he'd spent almost every waking moment near Dean. He'd become so accustomed to their synchronicity that having Dean gone felt like a limb was missing.

"Yeah, he knows," Sam replied softly, following Joss' example with the throwing knives. And the realization of truth came to him even as he spoke the words to Joss. "He defeats it every day. Every time we hunt evil, he defeats it." He smiled, and met Joss' eyes. "Cale doesn't know what she's gotten herself into."

He rolled the stained knives back into the soft cloth, and put them in his pocket. Joss slung the strap to the quiver of arrows over one shoulder, and rested the crossbow on the other. Paul walked in with two shotguns, one a sawed-off. He rested a barrel on each shoulder, and nodded to Sam. Sam took a breath.

"Let's do this."

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When he was angry, he moved. The problem this time was that a level of pain he hadn't felt in a long while was hampering his movement. Which only served to make him angrier. Since Cale's trick with John, Dean had been pacing slowly. He started with his back to one of the five foot walls, then stepped in slow, even strides, keeping left hand against the wall, his right arm wrapped around his battered ribcage. Eight strides exactly. During one pass, he'd felt for a door, trying in vain to figure out how the hell that cat had gotten in.

"Probably beamed in," he grumbled when his fingers found only a smooth, cold surface.

The walking, as slow as it was, began to warm him, but the acute stabbing in his chest was almost enough to make him stop. He'd bunched the edge of his T-shirt up and pressed it against the tear in his side from the broken rib. To distract himself, he tried to reason out his situation. To distract her, he began to sing, low, broken by shallow breaths, but sing.

"_Close the door, put out the light,"_ … she wanted him to fear, why? What would that gain her? "_You know they won't be home tonight," _… if it was just to torture him, he could understand that, but he wondered how long he would last… he was so cold… he could feel the fever building… he knew that his body would break before his will… "_The snow falls hard and don't you know?" … _it had something to do with before… she'd killed Judah because of her witch sister… his blood… his blood… something about his blood binding him to the witch… "_The winds of Thor are blowing cold. They're wearing steel that's bright and true," _…Sammy would know… kid was too smart for his own good… mind like a sponge… probably why he was cursed with the visions… the one thing Dean couldn't protect him from… couldn't save him from… "_They carry news that must get through."_

His weary, battered body began to rebel and he stumbled a step, jarring his ribs and sending a harsh throb of pain into the cut on his head. He clenched his teeth through a groan, then found the next corner, put his back against it and slid down. God, he just wanted to go home.

"You don't have a home," Cale's voice mocked him from the grate in the ceiling above.

He cursed himself. She was always listening.

"I've been enjoying your serenade," she purred, and this time it sounded like her lips were hovering just above his ear. He could swear he almost felt her breath. "But you cannnot sing forever."

"Oh, I haven't even started on Metallica yet, sweetheart," he panted, unable to keep the pain from his voice. "You haven't lived until you've heard _Wherever I May Roam_."

She flicked her hand with anger in her narrowed eyes and the trapdoor shut.

"Not a Metallica fan, then," he muttered. "Good to know."

He sat in the blackness for what seemed like hours, but in reality could have been minutes. Time ceased to have any meaning. He tried to wrap his arms tighter around himself to maintain whatever warmth he could, but his ribs protested loudly. He could ignore the hungry sounds of his stomach, but his thirst was beginning to be a bit of a problem. The fever that was sending increasingly violent shivers through his body only intensified the need for water.

He realized belatedly that he was telegraphing his misery directly to Cale. He didn't have the breath to sing anymore, and it would only further dry out his parched mouth. Instead, he tipped his head back, tried desperately not to sleep and repeated over and over in his mind, '_The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep and miles to go before I sleep…"_

He felt his eyelids begin to drift and increased the speed of the poem in his head, then slowed it, then sped it up again. Anything to keep her out. He couldn't afford to sleep… she could enter too easily then.

After his tenth time repeating the poem, he heard the trapdoor open once more. He blinked slowly and raised his head, ready to give Cale a dead-eye stare. He was stunned to see Sam's face peering down at him. The bruises on his cheekbone stood out sharply in the dim firelight. No… it couldn't be Sam. She let him go. He was free. He was away.

"Dean?"

God, it _sounded_ like Sam… but so had Dad. He didn't speak, determined to wait Cale out. Force her to show her face.

Which she did. Next to Sam's.

"No…" Dean breathed.

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_a/n: The songs Dean sings are: AC/DC's Jailhouse and Led Zepplin's No Quarter. The poem he chants is an excerpt from "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost._

_Translation:_

_**Sa tchob byen?** How goes it, How is it going?_

_**Mo konmprann**. I understand_

_**Tanpri**. Please._

_There is more to come… and I am planning on returning a character from Holding On To Let Go in a bit… can't say what chapter, exactly, because I'm still fleshing out the details, but the entire story is in skeleton form (sounded more appropriate to the genre than outline…). _


	4. Chapter 4

**_Disclaimer/Spoilers/Explanation of Creole language use:_** _See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: Thanks again to IMTheresa for use of events in her story "Scars of the Past". Thanks also for all of the reviews – I hope I've replied to each of you…and to those that I cannot, thanks for riding this with me. _

_Lucky for me we don't live in a fanfiction world without betas. Thanks for cleaning up after me, Kelly._

_www_

_All within my hands_

_Take your fear, pump me up_

_All within my hands_

Within My Hands Part 4

"No… no, you let him go…" Dean's voice was shaking as he tried to sit up straighter.

Cale showed her teeth, her eyes flashing in triumph. "I never said that, Dean Winchester. I said he wasn't to be killed. And as you can see, he is still very much alive."

_Dammit_, Dean growled to himself. Was this real? What was the truth? Had he managed to put himself in a box to save Sam only to have Sam in the hands of evil this whole time? He blinked a drop of sweat from his eye, mildly surprised that he could be sweating when he was so damn cold. He kept his eyes pinned to Sam, watching for a sign, any sign, that this was not his little brother. Or, a signal that it was.

"_Li fe fre,_ is it not Dean Winchester? I see you tremble…"

Dean didn't look at her. "Bite me," he said, angry that the tremor in his voice was audible.

"Not to worry. That will come in time."

Dean rolled his eyes at her. "If that's what you're after, sweetheart, then let's go. Leave my brother out of this."

Cale's teeth flashed again. She reached up and ran her fingers through Sam's hair from neck to forehead, than back again. Dean watched Sam close his eyes in disgust, but other than that he didn't move, didn't speak. Dean couldn't see him from the shoulders down. Was she threatening him somehow that he couldn't see? Why didn't he fight her?

"Your brother is already a part of this," she purred, turning and burying her nose at the base of Sam's ear. Sam's lips turned down in a grimace and he twisted his head away.

"Gonna have to pass on that one, then. Never was into threesomes. Too selfish," he grumbled, then coughed, the jolt of the cough jarring his ribs viciously. He couldn't still the small cry of pain that followed.

Cale turned her green cat-eyes down to him, and wrinkled her nose at his continuous resistance. "I tire of you, Dean Winchester. So I gave your brother a choice."

She gripped the hair at the back of Sam's head and shook it once, hard. Sam's eyebrows drew together in a flash of pain. Dean stared at him. It _was _Sam. He knew his brother's face better than anyone. He knew when he was happy, brooding, scared, sad, in pain… he knew when he was hiding something and when he was just dying to ask him a question… he knew when he was angry, and he knew when he was lost… he knew every crease, every expression. He had made a career of reading Sam. And he was looking at his brother now.

"What choice?" he asked, his voice dull and raspy, afraid that he already knew the answer.

Cale snaked her arm around Sam's neck, and stroked his opposite cheek with her long fingers. "You or life."

Dean swallowed. An impossible choice for most people. For Dean, the answer would have been clear. He was not worth Sam's life. He prayed that Sam had known this. That he had chosen life.

"Dean," Sam's voice trembled. He sounded just as he had when the mobster-wannabes had dragged him into the large room and started to pull his arms from their sockets. He had said nothing else, couldn't seem to get anything else out. Dean tried to read Sam's answer from the emotions behind that word, but strangely all he heard was desperation.

"And?" Dean said, his green eyes shifting to meet Cale's. The flash of pleasure in her eyes spoke volumes.

"And, he chose…wisely. I win you again. You brother has decided to leave. He must leave you, this town, and never return. You will be alone. _Vou san vou- mem byen_?"

Dean stared at her blankly. She repeated, "How does that make you feel?"

_Betrayed_, the word came swiftly, unbidden and before Dean could block it from her.

She smiled, still petting Sam's cheek. "I thought so."

_No!_ he wanted to scream. No, he didn't mean that. He wanted Sam to choose life… Sam should leave him, must leave him. He would have been furious if Sam had chosen him instead… he wouldn't have allowed it, couldn't have lived with himself had that been the case. But then why when he heard those words did he suddenly feel hollowed out, empty and… alone.

Cale released Sam's head and he dropped it low so that Dean could no longer see his brother's eyes. She leaned low over the grate, peering at him with lidded eyes. Twitching her nose as though picking up his scent, she curled her lips upwards.

"Is that…fear I smell, Dean Winchester?"

Dean glared at her, refusing to answer aloud or in his mind.

"I will leave you… alone," she purred, leaned back and closed the trap door.

The darkness was complete – it wrapped around him, seeped into him, and began to fill the hole inside of him.

www

"You two will do as I say when we get there," Paul said, his rumble leaving no room for argument. Joss nodded at his father.

"Yessir," Sam automatically replied, without really even thinking about it. Paul's tone had been the equivalent of John Winchester, and Sam knew how to respond to an order. This time when they emerged from _Katr_,no one bothered to hide their weapons. They walked down the nearly deserted street in the weak light of dawn, crossbow and shotguns visible and yet barely a glance was spared their way.

Sam had retrieved Dean's spare pistol from the Impala. He loaded it with silver bullets that they normally saved for werewolves or black dogs, but had found themselves using for more than one evil son of a bitch over the last several months. He had put it in the pocket of his jacket, and had secured the rolled up knives in the hollow of his back, tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

He was surprised to see that many of the bars were still open, and patrons were still inside, drinking, laughing, talking, and dancing. They passed the bar with the propped open door, and Sam looked in. There wasn't a pool table in his eye line, so he surmised that it had been a good looking woman Dean had seen last night causing his green eyes to light up. U2's "One" was humming from the jukebox this time around.

If he were ever permitted to enjoy it, Dean would love this town. It was the perfect place for him to just…be. No explanations, no hidden agenda. Just be Dean. Sam sighed and picked up his pace to keep up with the Coulees. The packet of knives at his back pressed against him as he walked.

When he was twelve and Dean sixteen, his brother had taught him how to throw knives at a target. Sam remembered that Dean's whole bearing had been different with this lesson – different from when he'd taught him to tie his shoes, ride his bike, or throw a football… Sam knew immediately when the lessons began that this wasn't for enjoyment; this lesson had a purpose. This was so that one day he would be able to save a life – his, Dean's, or John's.

Sam had watched John teach Dean to shoot, to fight, and to throw. He'd watched with a confusing mixture of envy, awe, and relief. When Dean had woken him that cool autumn morning, a serious look in his eye, and told him that he had something to teach him, Sam's gut had clenched with excitement and anxiety.

It turned out that he was better with the knives than he'd thought he could be – in some ways, better than Dean. His longer reach provided him more thrust, and what he lacked in accuracy he made up for in power. Dean nailed the target bulls-eye each time, burying the eight inch blade about an inch into the wood. Sam was consistently off-center, but his blade was about three inches deeper. At times, the boys would have to take the target down and place their foot on it for leverage to remove the knife.

At the edge of the woods, Paul stopped them and spoke in an even, lecturing tone. He captured Sam's full attention immediately with, "They will know we are here when we reach the porch."

Joss nodded. Sam stared. Paul continued. "We must assume that Dean is on the premises. She will have to begin the spell in her true form and complete it as the panther. When she shifts, we move in."

"How will we know?"

"The shift is painful for the panther. You will hear her scream."

Sam swallowed and nodded for Paul to continue.

"Sam, you will not be able to kill Riggs with your knives – but you can weaken him. You are to back Joss up. He will make the kill with the crossbow."

Sam lifted a brow. "What will you be doing?"

"I will take care of Cale," his voice held a current of rage that made Sam suppress a shudder. Paul looked through the woods toward the house. "And her cat."

"What about Dean?"

"They come first," Paul said, turning his eyes back to Sam. "If we don't remove them, it won't matter if we find Dean."

Sam tilted his head to the side, reaching back for his knives. "How do you know all of this?"

An ironic smile twisted Paul's lips. "Who do you think taught your father about witches?"

Sam's brows shot up. "You're a hunter?"

"Was," Paul said, looking at his son who had been silent during the whole exchange, simply waiting for the order to move.

"What made you stop?"

Paul looked back at Sam, sadness in his eyes. "Judah." He kept his eyes on Sam and watched while Sam absorbed this. Sam pressed his lips together, nodded and looked into the woods.

"We goin' or what?"

The trio of hunters moved quietly through the woods alert for any movement that would reveal they'd been spotted. They reached the hiding place Sam and Dean had occupied the previous afternoon, and crouched down. Joss pulled the bow taut and set a blood-tipped arrow in the cradle. He kept it pointed away from Sam and his father, his dark eyes pinned to the house. Sam bit his lip, his entire body wired, anxious to get moving, to get in there, to get Dean, but he waited for Paul's order. Paul calmly watched the house.

"Thanks," Sam said softly, not looking at either Coulee.

Paul nodded, not looking at Sam. "For family, we do what is necessary."

www

Dean didn't move. He'd forgotten how. He sat, blinking his eyes in the dark, holding his damaged ribs, feeling his heart beating through the throb in his head. Sam was gone. He'd wanted him to leave, but he was _gone_. Somehow that was different. Somehow that was horrible.

He swallowed. He breathed. He blinked. What the hell did he do now? His world had just ceased to exist. His father had left them…_for the best…to protect them_. Sam had walked away. Again. And he was alone in the dark. He blinked again and felt the hollow numbness shift inside of him. He was alone in the dark because of a fucked up Voodoo sorceress and her pet panther. Alone in the dark because he'd killed her fucking evil witch sister and she wanted… what? To get her back?

"Holy shit," Dean breathed aloud. That was it. She was using him to bring her sister back. He didn't know how it was going to go down, or how he would be involved exactly, but he knew. He knew. And he was pissed. She made Sam _leave_ so that she could get her sister back?

"No way in hell I'm givin in, lady," he growled, looking up to where the trap door should be. "You hear me!" He yelled, the effort causing him to collapse in a painful fit of coughing. He gained his breath and groaned against the pain in his side. He looked back up and this time said softer, "You fucked with the wrong family."

Her roar of anger was both satisfying and terrible. The trap door flew open with such force that Dean saw it rip from its hinges and fly out of eye line. Cale stood there with Sam at her side, her hand gripping the back of his neck, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. Dean watched the look of pain settle on Sam's face and he willed his brother to fight her. _Fight her, Sam_.

"He will not," Cale screamed in anger at him. "You have just killed him."

"No!" Dean yelled but before he could say anything else, he heard the horrible sound of bones crunching, and Sam's head fell loosely to one side. She released him and he dropped bonelessly to the ground, his head and one hand landing on the grate, his eyes empty and lifeless.

"No…" Dean breathed. He tried to push himself to his feet but he was shaking too badly to get his feet and arms to cooperate and push him up. He looked up into the lifeless eyes of his brother and trembled. "Sam…" his voice caught in his throat. It couldn't be over. This was not supposed to be how it ended. Sam was supposed to have a normal life, a chance… he was _not _supposed to be lying above him… he couldn't even bring himself to think the word.

"NO!" he roared and this time he didn't even flinch when the brilliant white of her blinding light sliced through the darkness of his prison. He used his rage to push himself to his feet, used his pain to move himself forward. He didn't care what happened to him now. Sam was dead. There was nothing left for him now. He moved toward Cale, ignoring the pain in his side, in his head, searing his eyes. He moved toward her, reaching for her throat, intent on causing her as much harm as possible before she killed him, too.

He stumbled through her. "What the f-" he didn't get a chance to finish. Her image vanished and a loud, enraged chanting began to permeate the dark. He couldn't understand the words – couldn't tell where they were coming from, but he knew it was Cale and he knew she was angry. A strange, suffocating sensation pressed in around him and he found himself on his knees.

His hands reached for the wall that he knew had to be close by and instead touched the soft fur of the panther. _Oh shit_, he thought. How the hell did that get in here?! The chanting increased in volume and he felt his heart thump once, hard. He pressed a hand to his chest, and fell forward, catching himself with this other hand. He suddenly couldn't breathe… his chest constricted painfully, his broken rib digging into his side… his head swam and he fought to keep himself from falling face-first on the ground.

He couldn't let the darkness win… he couldn't let her win… she'd thought she would take his world from him and leave him empty… she wasn't going to get to fill him with fear. He would kill her or die trying. He had nothing left – she would be his last evil.

He tried to drag in a breath, but it felt like something was flattening his lungs from the inside out. As his strength left him, he managed to land on his left side and roll to his back. He looked up, the dim candlelight his only focal point. He could see his brother's body lying prone across the grate. He felt a painful thrust into his head and his back arched painfully as the chanting spell increased in speed and in volume.

Dean cried out against the invasion of the words in his mind. He couldn't understand her, but he could _feel_ her in his mind… feel her fingers crawling in and touching memories, thoughts, feelings that until this moment had all been safely ensconced behind his wall. He tried to push her away, but he was too weak. He felt the soft brush of the panther's tail across his bare feet and then moments later he felt the animal's breath on his face.

He was losing the battle. His weakened body pushed up away from the floor, trying to resist her, his stubborn mind tried to block her, but his heavy-lidded eyes rested on the body of his brother barely visible in the candlelight and he felt himself beginning to drift into the grey void she was creating in his mind. His eyelashes fluttered… he blinked up once at Sam… and saw… someone else.

"Sam," he breathed as his eyes closed again, shutting out the image of the body across the grate, shutting out the constant cadence of the voice in his head, shutting out the pain… shutting out the world.

www

Somewhere in the back of Sam's mind, he felt a familiar pull. He was so intent on listening for Paul's instructions that he almost missed it. But when he felt it again, he pulled his focus from Paul and Joss to try to figure out what it was… a memory? It sounded like a… voice. Suddenly he remembered that night in his dorm room, almost two years ago, when he'd been studying and had heard Dean's voice in his head. He hadn't been able to understand what he was saying, but he knew it was his brother's voice…and he knew Dean was in pain.

He'd immediately picked up his phone, ignoring the fact that they hadn't spoken in the months since he left, and called Dean. He had been right; Dean was hurt, and he was not talking about it, not letting anyone help him. He'd been able to be a comfort to his brother… and this… nagging sensation. It was that same thing. Only… very faint, very weak.

"Paul," Sam barked softly. "We have to hurry. Dean is running out of time."

"How do you know?" Joss asked.

Sam shook his head, concentrating on what was now very clearly Dean's voice, murmuring something indistinct in the back of his mind. "I just do."

Paul looked at Sam, studied his face, watched his eyes dart as he concentrated and looked inward, and came to a decision. "Change of plans."

Both boys looked up at him. "Joss, take the guns and give me the crossbow."

"Papa, I – "

"Do not argue. I am your father," Sam's head jerked up at that statement in spite of himself, "do as I say."

Joss frowned at being spoken to like a child. Nevertheless, he did as his father asked. Sam looked at him, silent, and noticed his eyes were hard and unreadable.

"Joss, you first, I will follow, and Sam, you flank us. It will be fast. Be ready."

Sam had been ready from the moment Joss dragged him out of the house. On a silent three-count, Joss kicked the door in and they entered just as Paul instructed. The two men who'd held Sam's arms the night before charged them. Without a moment's hesitation, Joss took out both men with a well-aimed shotgun blast. Neither man moved, and Sam thanked whatever god watched over hunters that they weren't part-demon like Riggs. He closed off the part of his mind that started to register that they were _human_.

In the moment it took him to formulate that thought, the three of them had moved further into the house. The candles that were still burning were grouped in the far corner of the house. The rest had burned down to the ground leaving a border of melted wax around the large, empty room. They moved in an arrow-shaped pattern, Sam in the middle. It was difficult to see in the dim light of dawn that filtered through the shuttered windows, but Sam knew that they would have no problem spotting Riggs.

The cry of the panther startled him. He'd never heard something quite so terrible. The cat literally screamed in pain, and it echoed through the house, filling the room, chasing through his head. As the cry faded, he searched the space for the direction it came from.

"There!" he shouted, pointing to the area of the house that still had the cluster of candles lit. The slim, prone body of Cale lay on the floor surrounded by candles while the imposing mass of Riggs stood over her, head bowed, as though in prayer, his lips moving in a silent chant. Without hesitating -- without thinking, really – Sam pulled out the knives, grabbed one and flipped the hilt to his fingers, paused to take a breath and sight his target as Dean had taught him, then threw. True to form, the knife hit off-center and embedded itself in Riggs' shoulder.

The large man looked up with a startled, angry cry. Judah's blood began to burn him and he reached with a massive hand to pull the knife from his shoulder. By the time he'd pulled it out, though, Sam had thrown two more and Joss and Paul were moving to his right and left to get in position. Sam's second knife hit Riggs' upper right thigh and his third, thrown while Sam was in motion, missed entirely and speared the wall just past Riggs' head.

"I am going to rip your head from your body," Riggs roared as he advanced on Sam.

He pulled the knife from the wall as he came and Sam kept his eyes on that hand. However, when Riggs flipped the knife to throw it by its blade, the blood on the tip began to burn his fingers like acid, smoke curling up and skin bubbling. Riggs dropped the knife with a literal roar of pain, and Joss blasted him with the shotgun. Riggs whipped around in Joss' direction and Sam took the moment to throw his last knife – it hit Riggs in the neck, deep. Sam could only see a few inches of blade protruding from the bodyguard's neck.

Sam moved to circle behind Paul, pulling the pistol he'd stashed in his pocket as he did so. Riggs' snake eyes glowed with rage and he pulled the knife from his neck as the poison burned through his blood. He turned again to try to track Sam, lumbering like a wounded bear. His arm swiped at Sam's back his large fist striking a glancing blow on Sam's shoulder, causing him to stumble. Sam quickly gained his footing and positioned himself behind Paul and the business end of the crossbow.

"Riggs," Paul rumbled and Sam was surprised to see that Riggs actually looked small when standing face to face with Paul Coulee.

"You are no match for me," Riggs scoffed blood spurting from the wound in his neck as he talked. "Do you know who I am?"

"A dead man," Paul answered. He braced the crossbow's neck with his left hand and pulled the trigger with his right. The silver tipped arrow with Judah's blood flew straight and pierced through Riggs' chest. While an excellent shot, it wasn't enough – the poison shot through his body and out the other side.

"Papa!" Joss yelled as he watched a now insanely enraged Riggs advance on his father. He raised his shotgun just as Sam raised the pistol loaded with silver bullets. Both fired simultaneously as Paul reloaded the crossbow. Riggs jerked violently and fell to his knees. His face was red with fury and his narrow eyes mere slits of rage. He began to stand once more when Paul backed up one space, then fired again. This time the arrow buried itself in Riggs' belly, the poison working its way through the large man's system.

Sam squinted his eyes and tilted his head away as Riggs was consumed by the writhing agony the poison caused. His large head was thrown back and his scream of pain was at once terrifying and craved. Then, suddenly, he stopped screaming and fell forward, the deadly arrow shoving through his body with the force of his fall.

The three men stood for the smallest of moments, breathing in the silence. Then Sam heard the low growl of the cat.

"Dean," he breathed, heading over to Cale's body. He pointed the gun at her head, but hesitated. She looked like she was asleep. She looked peaceful, innocent, human. He hesitated one moment too long.

"Sam! Back!" Paul's command startled him. He jumped back a half step at the _shink_ of the arrow as it left the crossbow and embedded into the base of her throat up through her head. Cale's body bucked and impossibly her eyes flew open. Below them, the cat screamed.

A blinding blue-white light shot out of Cale – from her eyes, mouth, ears, fingertips. Sam cried out in startled pain as the light seared his eyes. He covered them quickly and backed up a few spaces. A roar of wind sounding like a tornado whipped around him and pulled at his hair and jacket. He could hear nothing but the cacophony of wind and see nothing but the precious darkness his eyelids provided. A very human scream replaced that of the panther's and it peaked to a shrill, ear-shattering pitch, then was gone.

The room was still. Sam cautiously peaked out from behind his hands and saw that Paul and Joss were doing the same – Joss on his knees, shotgun loose in his hands and Paul leaning against the nearest pillar, empty crossbow pointed to the ceiling. They were alone in the room – the bodies of Riggs and Cale were gone. The bodies of the two men in the front part of the house still lay where they had fallen, but the half-demon and the sorceress had vanished. The candles had been extinguished by the wind, and the shuttered windows let in pale tendrils of morning light.

The panther let out a low, dangerous growl that crawled up Sam's spine. He whipped around, trying to find the source. He saw in the floor just off to his right what looked like a large drain with criss-crossed grates. A body of what was apparently one of Cale's hired guns lay across part of the opening.

"Oh, God," he whispered. It hadn't been just a freaky-ass nightmare. It had been real, and he hadn't realized it for what it was. He stumbled over to the grate and quickly pulled the body away, leaning down to peer into the depths below expecting to see the hollow-eyed, emaciated face of his brother staring up at him.

_Dean_. Though the light from the windows was dim, it was enough that he could see his brother lying on the ground below, eyes closed, body completely still. He tried to see if he was breathing, but it was too hard to tell from this distance. A shadow passed over Dean's face and Sam saw the large cat circling his brother.

"He's here!" Sam yelled to the Coulees over his shoulder. "He's down here and so is that cat."

Joss ran to the closest windows and ripped the shutters from their hinges. The bright light of the morning streamed in and made the three men blink at the brilliance. Sam looked back down into the hole. He could see more of Dean, but still couldn't tell if he was alive.

Paul looked down and tried to angle the crossbow. He pulled it back and shook his head. "I cannot guarantee that I won't hit your brother."

Sam's head snapped up and he looked from Paul to Joss. The cat growled low and he saw it pass Dean once more in its frantic circular pace. It was scared and that scared Sam. He didn't know when or if it would decide to take a swipe at Dean. He had to get down there.

"Dean," Sam called down through the grate. Dean didn't move. Sam could see by the angle his brother lay that blood had dried on the back of his T-shirt collar and on his right side. His feet were bare, and even unconscious he held his left hand across his middle protectively cradling his right side.

"I gotta get down there – you see a door or something anywhere?"

Joss jumped up and tried the metal doors at the far end of the room. Two led to dark hallways, three to narrow closets. "It could be here."

"Try it," Sam commanded. "Paul, help me get this grate open."

"If Joss doesn't find a way in, it will be difficult to get him out of there," Paul said, leveraging the grate up with the end of the shotgun.

Sam narrowed his eyes and shook his head at Paul as if to say 'don't bother me with that now'. They managed to lift the grate up and Sam swung his legs in the hole. He glanced back at Paul. "If that cat comes at me, you shoot it," he said, handing Paul the shotgun he'd used to pry the grate up.

Paul's answer was the decisive click of the shotgun's hammer.

Taking one deep breath as though diving into a pool, he leaned into the hole, dangled by his fingers for a moment, then dropped the rest of the way. He pulled the gun from the waistband of his jeans and tried to find the panther in the darkness.

It was impossible to see. He could see Dean at his feet because of the glow from the windows above. Outside of that small circle of light, it was completely, utterly black. He swallowed convulsively. This is what Dean had been in while they'd been apart. This darkness.

"Paul!"

"I am here, Sam."

"I need a light," he called up. Paul disappeared from his sight for a moment. When he returned he had wrapped several of Cale's scarves around one of the arrows and lit it from a candle that had apparently survived the maelstrom. He tossed it down the hole, avoiding both boys. He did that twice more, surrounding them with the glow of the torches. Sam crouched down next to Dean, feeling for a pulse with one hand while he kept his gun at the ready and his eyes peeled to the darkness looking for the cat. His brother's skin was burning, but Dean was shivering.

"I'm here now, man," Sam whispered. "I've got you."

As he said that, though, he saw the cat. She was pacing back and forth at the far end of the room from them, her eyes catching the torch light and tossing it back to him. She flashed her teeth in a silent growl.

"Cat's staying away," he called up to Paul. Paul replied with a combination of Creole words Sam took to mean 'damn well better'. He didn't care. Dean was all that mattered now.

Resting the gun on the ground next to him within easy reach, he gently rolled Dean to his back and took stock. The bruises he remembered Dean having when he'd last seen him stood out in stark contrast to his pale face. They surrounded his left eye from his cheekbone to just above his temple. Sam carefully felt along the back of Dean's head for the source of the blood he'd seen drying on his brother's T-shirt collar. Dean groaned when Sam's fingers found the gash.

"Sorry, sorry," Sam whispered and then trailed his fingers carefully down his brother's torso. He could tell immediately that Dean had at least one compound fracture in his ribcage, and who knew how many more that Sam couldn't feel at the moment. There were four large but shallow scratches on his right shoulder. But other than that, he was just fine, Sam thought angrily.

"Dean?"

Dean didn't move beyond the feverish shivering. Sam, careful to avoid jarring his ribs, gathered him up. He eased Dean's head into his lap and wrapped an arm across his brother's bare arms and chest. He looked up at Paul, then around at the torch lit, tiny room. He couldn't see a door. How were they going to get him out of there?

"Did she complete the spell?" Paul called down.

Sam had almost forgotten about the spell. "How can I tell?"

"Are there bite marks anywhere on your brother?"

_Bite marks? She'd bite him?_

Sam shook his head. "He has shallow scratches on his shoulder."

"But nowhere has he been bitten?"

"No."

Paul was silent. Sam looked up again.

"Is that good news or bad news?"

"Both."

"Not helping," Sam grumbled quietly. Paul heard him and shook his head.

"She began the spell else she would not have transferred into the panther. To complete it, she would need to bite him, much like a vampire. But if there are no marks on him, she did not complete it… so the _chauchemar _is not yet alive."

"Not yet?"

Just then Dean groaned. Sam focused on his brother, ignoring anything else that Paul might have said.

"Dean?"

Dean's eyebrows pulled together and he pressed his lips into a thin line. He _was _pain. It hurt everywhere, especially his head. He thought he heard Sam say his name… but that would be impossible… because she had killed Sam… snapped his neck… only… what had he seen above him before the chant in his head swamped him…

"Dean, hey," Sam whispered, placing his long fingers on either side of his brother's face and turning it toward him. "Hey, open your eyes now. It's me, it's Sammy."

Dean's eyebrows pulled tighter in confusion. Sammy? Couldn't be, could it? _Open your eyes, Dean, _he commanded himself. He tried, but couldn't seem to get them to do more than flutter. He could feel that his upper body wasn't against the floor anymore… someone was holding him. A cool hand was pressed against his hot forehead, and another was wrapped around him, almost cradling him. He tried again to open his eyes and this time managed a full blink.

"That's it," Sam's voice was relieved and worried and guilty at the same time. "C'mon, man, look at me."

Dean licked his lips. He was so thirsty. And so cold. He swallowed and blinked his eyes again. This time he registered a blurry face looming above him. A face framed by shaggy brown hair.

"Sammy?" it came out as a rough croak, but at least it came out. He blinked again, and the blur got clearer. Suddenly he realized that there was soft light around them. He pressed his eyes shut hard, then opened them again, willing away the blurred vision. Sam. Sam was looking at him. Sam was holding him.

But he saw Sam die. He was so sure…

"Are you… You died," he croaked.

"No, man, I'm right here. We're gonna get you out."

"Sh-she killed you... Saw it."

Sam's eyebrows pulled together and he bit his lip. Dean looked weak and pale. His eyes were heavy and Sam could read the pain etched in every blink. His voice wasn't the voice of the warrior, but the voice of a much younger Dean, a boy that Sam hadn't heard in a long time… a voice that Dean hadn't allowed John to hear since he was nine.

"I'm okay, Dean," Sam said, swallowing. He gathered his brother closer, needing the contact as much as he was trying to reassure Dean. "She didn't get me."

"Saw it," Dean repeated, softly, his eyes sliding closed.

"No, no, man," Sam shook him gently, the heat from his brother's body seeping through his thin T-shirt and into Sam. The cat had quit her pacing and was sitting in the far corner, staring at them. Sam spared it a glance and in the gloom could only see her eyes.

"Dean, wake up, now, don't you do this. Talk to me. Tell me. What did you see?"

Dean blinked at the sharp edge in Sam's voice. He swallowed. "Made you choose," he mumbled. "I think I pissed her off…"

Sam had to smile at that. He could only imagine. Dean had a way of making people angry faster than anyone else he'd ever met.

"Broke your neck… left you up there… s-so I could see," Dean finished, closing his eyes this time to block the memory.

Sam suddenly realized what had happened. He thought about the body of the hired gun he'd pulled from the grate. _Bitch must've used a glamour_, he thought. Paul had said that Cale would have to break Dean, make him afraid to get the spell to work. She had apparently found Dean's weakness. Sam thought about what Dean said as he looked down at his brother's pale features. First, she made him think he would be left alone in this dark hole, that his family had abandoned him, then she took Sam from him with a vengeance.

"She didn't kill me, Dean. She tricked you."

"Didn't believe it," Dean said on a sigh, turning his head back toward his brother's body. "Not until you died, Sam. I didn't believe it."

"I'm right here, I promise. I'm here and I'm real, okay?"

"'Kay," Dean blinked slowly again, trying to look up at Sam's face. He said something else, but Sam could only make out 'alone in the dark'.

"Dean," Sam said. "You're not alone. You're never alone, you hear me?"

"I am without you," Dean whispered, too weak to realize what he'd admitted.

Sam's face crumpled and he squeezed his eyes tight to prevent the tears. Dean shivered hard in his grasp. His breaths were coming in rapid pants.

"We're gonna get you out of here," Sam promised. He looked up and saw that Paul was leaning in over the opening, scanning the interior of the room. "Paul, there anything we can use like a harness or something, lift him out?"

Paul narrowed his eyes in thought. "I will see."

Just as he was about to pull away, however, one of the walls slid open in complete silence and Joss stuck his head in. The cat jumped, startled at this sudden new addition and growled, swiping a paw at Joss. Joss jumped back, flattening his body against the wall outside of the room. The cat used the opening to her advantage and sprinted away down the narrow, dark passageway.

"Do you know how many of these little rooms she has down here?" Joss shook his head, looking back at Sam. "But I have found you at last."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "Help me," he said. Joss came over and crouched down beside Dean. His eyes slid over his friend quickly and he winced in sympathy.

"Moving him is going to cause him pain," Joss mumbled, concerned.

"Well, he doesn't want to stay in this box anymore, so get him the hell up," Dean grumbled, apparently aware that there were more people in the room than just Sam. Sam watched with humble amazement as the wall came up and Dean forced the façade of strength with Joss' presence.

Sam put a supportive arm around Dean's shoulders and helped him sit forward. Dean cried out as his ribs protested. Joss put an arm around Dean's waist and together, they pulled the injured man to his feet. Dean immediately swayed into Sam. Sam took his brother's left arm and slung it across his shoulders, wrapping an arm around Dean's waist and hooking his fingers into Dean's belt loops.

Joss grabbed one of the makeshift torches.

"You ready to get out of here?" Sam asked.

"I was born ready," Dean muttered, not able to pull his head up.

They started the slow shuffle out of the room.

Joss peered down the hall for the cat. Sam saw him.

"Your father said he'd take care of it," Sam told him. At least, that's what Sam _thought_ he said.

"Paul's here, too?" Dean asked, eyes closed, feet sliding along next to Sam.

"Upstairs."

"Upstairs?" Dean asked surprised. "You mean I'm in that house?"

"Never left," Sam answered, shifting as more of Dean's weight came his way. He wished his brother would just let himself be carried out, but unless Dean was unconscious…

Suddenly Dean sagged against him.

"Dean?" He called, stumbling a little under the increased burden. No response. "Damn," Sam grumbled, then shifted Dean against him, sliding his arm completely under his brothers shoulders and scooping him up under his knees. Dean's right arm flopped loosely and his head sagged down. Joss picked his head up and rested it against Sam's shoulder.

"You got him?" Joss asked, noticing how Sam sagged a bit under his brother's weight.

"I got him," Sam said. No one else was carrying him out of there. He'd carry Dean all the way to the bar if he had to. Just last night he had watched as Dean gave everything for him, and he had just heard from Dean a fraction of the hell Cale had put him through trying to break him. There was no way anyone was taking Dean from his arms.

www

When they emerged from the house, Sam was rethinking his bravado. Carrying Dean all the way to _Katr_ may have been a noble thought in the tunnels beneath the house, but now he was trembling from the effort. Dean was solid, and heavy. He was also dead weight. When he saw Beth sitting in the Coulees' pickup truck across the street, he almost stumbled with relief.

"How did she –"

Paul waggled his cell phone.

With Joss' help, he eased Dean into the bed of the pickup and climbed in to sit behind him, holding him steady. Dean's head rolled against his chest, and Sam put a protective hand over his brother's forehead, holding him. Dean's shivering had increased and Sam could hear the tiny gasps of air through his brother's lips. He shrugged out of his jacket and as gently as he could, wrapped it around Dean's upper body.

The window between the cab and the bed was open. Beth shot a nervous glance in the rear-view mirror at the boys.

"Did she say the spell?" she asked Paul. Paul looked back at Sam.

"I don't know," Sam said honestly. He looked down at Dean's face, thinking about what Paul had told him… if they weren't able to defeat Cale in time, Dean would have to battle the _chauchemar._ "I don't know," he repeated softly, worriedly.

They pulled up in front of the bar, and Paul, Joss, and Sam eased Dean from the bed of the truck. Joss settled Dean in his brother's arms and they made their way to the back of the bar. It was before ten in the morning; the bar was empty. Beth came in through the back door and led them to a room off of the kitchen that reminded Sam of the nurse's office in an elementary school.

He and Joss lay Dean on the narrow bed, then Sam stood and looked at Beth, eyebrow raised in question at the facilities. She shrugged.

"When you run a bar, you get bar fights," she said by way of explanation.

"You patch them up?" Sam said, grabbing a folded blanket from the nearby counter and spreading it over Dean's legs. He kept his jacket wrapped around him for the time being. The fever-induced shivering hadn't abated.

"Well, we can't have all our customers hanging out at the hospital, now can we?" she tossed this over her shoulder as she went through the cabinets getting gauze, antiseptic, sutures, bandages, and antibiotics. "He allergic to anything?"

Sam looked down at Dean. "Penicillin."

She replaced one bottle and took down another. "Help me, Sam. We need to get him patched up and awake as soon as possible."

Sam nodded. He'd spent plenty of time patching up not only Dean, but John and himself. He could have handled this as well, but Beth seemed to need to care for Dean, and Sam was willing to assist.

Beth leaned over Dean and with a tenderness that surprised Sam, stroked the soft hair at the crown of his brother's forehead. She murmured something he couldn't quite catch, and Sam would swear the woman was not looking at his brother, but at her lost son. She seemed to shake herself, and then with quick precision, Beth cut Dean's bloody T-shirt off of him. Sam grimaced – they didn't have that many clothes to spare. The bruising on his brother's chest made him gasp. He hadn't seen it this bad since the Roosevelt Asylum – and he'd been the cause of that. Beth pursed her lips.

"He has a gash on the back of his head," Sam said, handing her the antiseptic and gauze to clean out the scratches on his shoulder and the tear in his side. When the antiseptic touched the tear, Dean jerked and a groan of pain escaped. Beth and Sam both winced. She gently turned Dean to his side, and cleaned out the gash on the back of his head.

"It's going to need stitches. So will this fracture. But we have to set it first," Beth's voice was cool and her hands steady. She started with the back of his head. When the first stitch went in, Dean's eyes flew open and his hands jerked in defense.

"Hey, hey, man, it's okay," Sam knelt down so that he was eye level to Dean. He put a steadying hand on Dean's shoulder and grabbed one of the out flung hands, forcing his brother to focus on him.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was raw.

"Hey," Sam smiled.

"That really you?"

"Yeah, it's me. We're getting you fixed up, okay?"

"Where the hell are we?"

"_Katr_."

Dean blinked. He looked like he was having a hard time believing Sam. "How did we get out of there?"

Sam bit his lip and cast a quick glance over at Joss and Paul hovering in the doorway. "We kicked some serious demon ass, that's how."

Dean's mouth relaxed into a sideways smile, "That's my boy."

"Beth has to sew up your head, okay?"

Dean's eyes grew wide. "Beth?"

"I'm here, honey, now don't you worry, we're gonna fix you up right as rain," Beth chattered from behind him.

The look of shock on Dean's face would have been comical were it not for the wave of pain that erased it. Beth finished with his head, then she rolled him to his back. Dean focused on the ceiling, not speaking. Sam knew his brother well enough to know that he was counting the rhythm of something – a song, probably -- to avoid crying out in pain.

"Dean, honey, this is going to sting a bit," Beth said as she leaned toward his ribs.

Dean's eyebrow went up and he looked down at Beth with obvious disbelief.

"Oh, well, all right," she conceded. "It's gonna hurt like a bitch, but I can't give you anything for it."

"Why not?" Sam asked.

"It might make him go to sleep," Beth said, worry plain on her face.

"At least he won't feel it," Sam argued.

"Sam," Dean said, trying to calm his brother.

"Dean," Paul Coulee's voice sounded from the doorway. "Did Cale begin a spell before she became the panther?"

Dean's eyes met Sam's. Sam watched them lose focus, remembering. He seemed to be struggling to pin down a memory, or to hear something very faint or far away. Sam saw the moment when Dean realized the truth.

"It's in here," he whispered.

"What is, Dean?" Sam whispered, leaning close to his brother's face.

"The witch, she's in here… in my head… with me."

Sam's eyebrows pulled together and his mouth turned down in a heartbroken frown. "Are you sure?"

Dean's green eyes met his brown ones. Sam could see in them what Cale had spent hours trying to create… Dean was afraid. "I'm sure."

"Dean," Beth leaned in close, touching his cheek. Dean shifted his eyes to her and stiffened under the unfamiliar maternal caress. "We'll help you fight her… but first, we have to help you heal."

Dean nodded. Sam started to stand and get out of Beth's way. Dean felt him shift and his hand flew up to grip his wrist. Sam went back to his knees, looking at his brother in surprise.

"Don't," Dean said, not looking at Sam.

"I wasn't going to leave, Dean," Sam soothed. "I was just getting out of the way."

Dean shook his head once. "Sam," he said, his voice cracking. "Just, stay." Sam nodded.

Beth's gentle, expert hands moved to his broken rib. She lifted her eyes to Dean, silently asking if he was ready. He nodded. His scream as she moved the bone back into place wasn't just against the pain, it was against the hellish time he'd spent in the box, against the mind games Cale had played on him, against the invasion into his soul with her spell, and against the presence he could feel lurking in his mind, waiting for the moment when his defenses would be gone and she could come alive.

Sam cringed at Dean's scream. It was so primal, so raw. He instinctively reached out and gripped Dean's hand. His brother gripped back as though Sam were his anchor. Sam recalled being in this situation before, not too long ago, and their clasped hands had been the only thing that had grounded Sam when Dean slipped away. _You gotta stop doing this to me, man_, he thought. To him. For him.

How many lives did his brother have left?

"There, it's done, it's done," Beth panted. She cleaned and stitched the tear and then with Sam's help, she wrapped his ribcage tight.

Dean was trembling from pain and exhaustion when they finished and his eyes blinked slowly, heavy with the need for rest. He opened them wide in an effort to stay conscious, but the ache in his head and the dull throb in his side begged for oblivion. He gripped Sam's hand, drawing his attention.

"Sam," he whispered. "Water."

"Okay, Dean," Sam turned to ask Joss for water and was handed a glass by Paul. "Where's Joss?"

Sam helped Dean ease up to drink the water.

"He went back to the house," Paul said. He hastened to add when Beth threw him a panicked look, "To take care of the panther and get our weapons."

"Alone?"

Paul smiled softly at his wife. "He's fine, Beth. He needed to do this."

Dean's eyes dipped again and Sam shook his shoulder. "No, man. You have to stay awake."

"Trying…"

Sam looked up at Paul. "He's too exhausted… we're not going to be able…"

Paul bit his lip. "We could give him a shot of adrenalin," he offered.

Beth was approaching the bed with antibiotics and looked up, shocked, at her husband, "We most certainly cannot! With his fever that could kill him."

Dean rolled his eyes over to Sam. "Right here, people."

"Sorry," Sam said, a small smile on his face at the trademark Dean Winchester snark. "Take these." He helped Dean swallow the pills.

Dean lay his head back on the pillow. Beth pulled a blanket up and tucked it under his arms to help ward of the chills. She stuck a thermometer under his tongue, patting his cheek to get him to open his eyes as she did so. Sam squeezed his brother's hand when the blinks lasted a bit too long and eased up when Dean's eyes flew open.

"101.4," Beth sighed. "Not scary, but not good either. The antibiotics should help." She looked from Sam to Paul. "But the fever isn't going to help him stay awake. His body needs rest to heal." She pulled open a drawer and grabbed a pair of woolen socks, nodding to Sam to help her pull them on his bare feet.

"Sam," Dean's low voice broke in. "What will happen?"

"If you fall asleep?"

Dean nodded.

Sam returned to his brother's head and sighed. "The witch you killed with Judah that day… her sister turned her into a nightmare witch."

Dean's eyebrows flicked upward in inverted V's.

"She was trying to… bring her to life through you in that… that box."

"Let me guess," Dean rasped. "She lives on fear."

"Something like that, why?"

Dean swallowed and looked away. "Let's just say Cale did pretty much anything she could think of to make me afraid." _But it hadn't worked… had it? He hadn't feared her… but he had feared something else…_

Sam grimaced at the tone he heard in Dean's voice. Not defeat, but a never ending defiance. He'd known his brother wouldn't break. But that didn't seem to have saved him in the end – it had only caused him more pain.

"So," Sam sighed, sitting back on his heels. "She will feed off of your nightmares until she's powerful enough to manifest into reality."

"Unless I stop her."

"Right."

Dean turned back to Sam, his eyes pinned to his brother. It was one of those moments for Sam when time seemed to slow – like when Dean flashed one of his rare smiles – only this time, it was a moment where Sam was witness to what Dean was really feeling. His eyes were raw wounds, his walls transparent, and though it lasted for only a second, it gutted Sam and left him breathless.

"Sam…" Dean started.

"I don't know, man," Sam replied. _I don't know how to stop her…_ Dean blinked again and looked back up at the ceiling. He was trembling from pain, exhaustion, and fever. He desperately wanted sleep. He wanted oblivion. He wanted…

"I just want to go home," he whispered not realizing it was aloud.

Sam didn't know that it was possible to hear his heart break, but he did. It was a tinny-sounding pop, like the sound his ears made when he flew. His home was Dean. It always had been. No matter where they were, if his brother was there, he was home. But… where was home for Dean? He'd always thought it was the road, the Impala, Sam, and Dad. That was Dean's home. But… when one always changed, one left _because it was the only way to protect them_, and one not only left once but announced that he was planning to leave again when their mission was over, that left Dean with, what… a car?

Sam reached over without worrying about the consequences of his completely chick-flick gesture and put his hand on the top of Dean's head, using his thumb to smooth the lines of pain on his brother's forehead. He didn't say anything to that. What could he say?

It was proof of how much Dean was hurting when instead of pulling away with a snarky protest, he leaned into Sam's hand, into the comfort. His eyes closed once, and Sam waited for the weary blink. When it didn't come Sam pulled his hand away and stared hard at Dean.

"Dean," he said, shaking his hand once. Nothing. "Dean!" No reaction.

"Dammit," Sam said, releasing his brother's hand and standing up. He shoved his hands into his hair. He needed help. He looked down on Dean's unconscious form, knowing that he couldn't leave, not when the nightmares were about to hit. He couldn't leave Dean alone… but he needed to get them some help.

"Now what," Beth asked her husband worriedly. They had been standing in the doorway, watching the brothers. Beth stood with her back to Paul, his large arms wrapped around her, practically engulfing her.

Sam closed his eyes and rubbed his bandaged hand across his forehead. The witch was in Dean's mind… she was there, searching through memories, fears, joys, sorrows, moments of heroism, moments of failure… she would use it all to break Dean down in ways that Cale hadn't been able to from the outside. She would do it all inside of Dean's head where Sam hadn't been able to get in all of his twenty-two years…

"We need help," he muttered, thinking. Missouri? No, she couldn't see into his mind… only what he was thinking. He needed someone who could not only read Dean but see where he was coming from, where he could go, how he could fight her. He needed someone… with sight.

"Beth!"

"What?" Beth asked, cautiously hopeful at the sound of Sam's voice.

"I need to use the phone. Will you stay with him?"

"Of course," Paul gestured when Beth didn't answer.

Sam scrolled through his cell phone directory until he landed on the number he wanted. A quick glance at the clock told him that it was lunchtime there. After two rings, the phone was picked up and a brisk "Yeah?" floated to his ears.

"Brenna? It's Sam Winchester. I need your help."

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_Translation:_

_**Li fe fre**. It is cold._

_**Vou san vou- mem byen? **How do you feel?_

_a/n: Many of you told me you liked Brenna from Holding On To Let Go. I had so much fun writing her that I didn't want to leave her back there with Declan. And once I realized what Cale was going to do to Dean, she was the only logical choice. So, here's hoping you enjoy the next few chapters…_


	5. Chapter 5

**_Disclaimer/Spoilers/Explanation of Creole language use:_** _See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: This chapter returns the druid Brenna Kavanagh from "Holding On To Let Go" to the brothers – not purposely as a partner or lover for Dean (although these two have a mind of their own, and, well, sometimes things just happen) but as the only connection Sam could think of to save his brother. _

_Byen mersi, Kelly._

_www_

_Hate me now_

_Trap all within my hands_

_Hurry up and hate me now_

_Kill all within my hands again_

Within My Hands Part 5

Dean Winchester was not a man easily forgotten. No matter what mind games she played. No matter what she told herself. No matter the spells she cast – though of course for the spells to work, she actually had to believe they would. He got in under her skin and about a month after he drove away, she realized she was just going to have to live with the fact that he'd always be part of her in some way.

It wasn't that she loved him – it wasn't that she _didn't_ love him, either. It was… fact. He just was. She had seen him, touched him, tasted him. And she now had to go through life knowing that he was out there and decide daily how she felt about that. Most days it pissed her off. The reason would change. Sometimes because she was thinking about him. Sometimes because she knew he wasn't being careful. Sometimes because she was thinking about him not being careful.

Dean was a thunderstorm bottled in a diamond-hard gentleness. His life would never be his own, and yet, she was drawn to him like debris to a tornado. And that _really_ pissed her off. Because for Brenna, control was the essence of her survival. It had to be. If the wrong person found out about her… well, there would be hell to pay. And she would be forking over the cash.

So when she heard Sam's voice on the other side of her cell phone line, heard the desperate shake he worked overtime to hide, she knew that her life was going to collide with Dean's once again. She suspected that it probably wouldn't be the last time – they were like driftwood and beachhead. No matter how far the driftwood was thrown into the ocean, the tide would bring it back to the beach time and again.

"Brenna, it's Sam Winchester. I need your help."

"Where are you?"

"New Orleans."

"How bad is it?"

"It's… I – I don't know how to help him."

Sam's voice sounded so young, and Brenna closed her eyes, her free hand fisted over her stomach. What had they been through this time? She hadn't seen them or heard from them in almost two months. Not that she expected to, but the last she knew, they were in one piece and with the lives they led how long that lasted was anyone's guess.

"Tell me, Sam."

"Will you come?" he asked her, needing reassurance, needing to know.

She paused for a moment, breathing. "I'll be there."

As Sam filled her in on what he knew, she went to the cabinet in the room off the kitchen and began searching for the specific herbs she thought she might need. She pulled her T-shirt out, made a hammock of it in the front, then dumped the bottles in the center.

"Wait, so he bound the witch to himself?"

"He didn't realize," Sam protested. She could tell he was pacing – she gathered he picked that up from his brother.

Brenna sighed. Yes he did. He'd realized. But he probably also realized that there was no other way to kill the witch, and he did what he had to do. She didn't say this to Sam. She allowed him his protest, allowed him to continue.

She went up to her room, the door still crooked on its hinges nearly eight weeks after Sam had kicked it down, and dumped the bottles onto the bed, cradling the cell phone on her shoulder as she grabbed a duffel from the closet. Sam was nearing the end of his Reader's Digest version of their situation and she wanted to be ready to walk out the door when he was through.

"It's trapped inside of him," Sam finished, his breath coming out in shaky bursts. "And it will feed off of his nightmares – it will _cause_ the nightmares…"

"Because the bitch was too impatient and forced the spell," Brenna growled. The Voodoun had essentially raped Dean's mind with that invasion. She cringed at that thought – the pain that spell must have caused…

"Is he awake, Sam?"

"He was, but he passed out right before I called you."

"Can you tell if he's dreaming?"

"Yeah…"

With that voice she knew… she once again saw him as he was in her house asking if she could save his brother. These two, they only had each other. And if she couldn't help Dean defeat the _chauchemar_, they'd lose Sam as well. She'd almost witnessed that first hand.

"I know he's hurting, Sam, but he won't let her win. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know," Sam said, his voice soft. He gave her their location, then said, "Hurry, okay? I know he'll hold out as long as it takes, but…"

"I will," she said, knowing that the rest of Sam's sentence was _I don't know what he'll be like when it's over…_

Scrawling a hasty note to Declan and tacking it to the inside of the door, she grabbed up her duffel and the keys to the '82 Grande National, and jogged to the garage. As she turned on the car, Pearl Jam's "Better Man" blared through her speakers and she didn't bother to turn it down. What kind of life did she lead, she wondered, where she could pack a bag and take off leaving only a note, having no idea when she'd return?

"Exactly the kind I like," she muttered as she watched the dust fly in her rear-view mirror.

www

Sam clicked the phone closed and took a breath. He squared his shoulders and turned to face his brother. Dean was shiny with sweat, but shivering. His eyebrows were pulled together in a fierce frown and his breath was coming in rapid bursts. Sam knelt next to the bed, grabbing Dean's wrist with both hands. His skin was hot to the touch – so much so that Sam looked up, startled, to Beth.

She returned his look and retrieved the thermometer.

"103…" she murmured. "We have to get that lower – we'll never wake him up otherwise." She looked up at Paul. "And if Dean loses this fight, we'll have to be ready."

Sam closed his eyes, fighting to get a grip on his anger. He lost. "Listen," he snapped. "I get that you're worried, but I really need you to STOP planning for my brother to lose, okay?"

Beth actually jerked at the anger in Sam's voice. Even Paul reacted.

"Sam," he said, his voice low in an attempt to soothe the younger hunter.

"Seriously, man," Sam spat at him, his eyes hard. "All Dean has done is sacrifice for your family… for _our_ family." He looked back at his brother as Dean's head tossed once to the side, then back again toward Sam. "I don't think it's too much to ask to… to just goddamn believe in him."

Beth's lips pressed in a thin line. Sam leveled his eyes on her.

"I'll go get some ice."

She and Paul returned minutes later with several large plastic bags packed with ice. They positioned them around Dean's body, careful of his ribs and stitches. Dean's anxiety seemed to increase with the addition of the ice. His whole face was pulled into a frown and he jerked his head back and forth at irregular intervals.

"We have to get him some water, fluid…" Sam said, watching Dean's cracked lips part in his struggle. "Do you have IV's here?"

Wordlessly, Beth shook her head. Her face registered surprise that Sam would even know to ask that.

"Well, water, then, but not ice cold," Sam requested.

Beth brought him a glass, and he carefully put his hand behind Dean's head, avoiding the sutured gash, lifting his brother's head. He tried to pour some water into Dean's mouth. At first it seemed that the water just filled his mouth and ran out of the sides, but then after some patient persistence from Sam, Dean started to swallow. After he'd taken several gulps, Sam eased his head back and dried his face. Sam gratefully accepted the chair that Paul brought in for him and sat next to Dean, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers fisted around Dean's limp hand.

God, he wished he knew what was going on in there, he thought, watching Dean's face twist in pain. They adjusted the ice after an hour, adding cubes to the packs that were now mainly water. Dean had started mumbling slightly incoherently by then. Sam caught a few words, and tried to reassure Dean with his voice, his grip, his presence.

"Didn't mean… got it all wrong…"

"Hey, man, it's okay."

"Not what I said… not listening to me…"

"Dean, hey, take it easy. You're safe. I won't let anything hurt you," Sam almost winced at that promise. He couldn't promise that. He had no idea what the witch could do to hurt him. He wet a rag with the ice water and placed it on Dean's forehead. Dean flinched at the cool touch, but allowed it. Sam checked his pulse. It was racing. With the dart of Dean's eyes behind his closed lids, Sam knew this nightmare was wicked.

After another hour, they checked his temperature again. It was down to 100, and they removed many of the ice packs, leaving one under his right arm, against is bruised chest and broken rib. Sam knew from experience that the ice would help ease the ache from the broken and cracked ribs. Dean had stopped mumbling, but Sam hadn't been able to wake him.

"If he can't…" Beth murmured to Paul. Sam saw Paul tap the air softly with his hands to quiet her down. He didn't turn to face them, but he listened carefully.

"Paul," Beth persisted in a harsh whisper. "I'm telling you we _have_ to be ready. You remember what Judah said. You remember why he went after the Voodoun. Why he... why he was killed."

"Yes, I remember," Paul's deep rumble couldn't be quieted. "But this boy, Beth…"

"She will strip him bare and then she will be stronger than our small knowledge of binding spells can contain," Beth predicted darkly. Sam, listening quietly, closed his eyes. "Without Judah, we can't… we won't be able to…"

"Quiet," Paul soothed, and Sam saw him pull his tiny wife to him. "I won't let it come to that. I promise. _We_ won't let it."

Sam desperately hoped that Paul meant that they would do everything in their power to help him, help Dean… because the alternative was unthinkable.

"I will be ready," Beth whispered against her husband's massive chest, her face turned out toward the bed, looking at Dean with determined eyes.

Soon after, Beth and Paul left the room to go and open the bar for early afternoon customers letting Sam know they were in earshot should he need anything. Sam was relieved. He knew he should be more appreciative of their help and hospitality, but he was exhausted, worried, and having someone with the intimidating presence of Paul Coulee looking over his shoulder had been wearing him thin.

When they had gone, and he was alone with his brother, Sam allowed his shoulders to sag wearily. He silently watched Dean's face, watching his eyebrows tighten in what would be anger if he were conscious, then smooth to a brief moment of peace before pain chased across his features. He turned toward Sam as though looking for solace. Sam wished he could provide that, provide something. All he could do was sit and watch and grip Dean's hand.

"I don't know what's going on in there, man," Sam whispered, his eyes losing focus as he stared at the bandages that wrapped Dean's bruised chest. "But I know you. I know you're fighting it. I know you'll keep fighting it. I just wish I could help you."

He thought about finding Dean in the box, about his brother's murmur of _alone in the dark_.

He swallowed, pressing his lips together. "I wish I could make you see that you don't have to fight alone... I wish I would have realized sooner… what being alone meant to you… how that affected you. I never…" Sam sighed and fisted his hands together, resting his forehead against them. "I never really thought about what leaving for Stanford would mean for you, man. I just wanted to get away… from hunting, from Dad, from that life. I never wanted to leave you."

Sam was quiet for a moment, having grown so accustomed to Dean's rapid breathing that it became background noise for him. He lifted his head and watched Dean's face as his brother struggled silently through the nightmare. "You're not alone, Dean, okay?"

One moment later, Dean's eyes flew open, wide and unseeing. He reached out in front of him, as though swiping at something. Sam sat back, surprised, then leaned forward to catch Dean's hand. Dean turned his eyes to Sam, the pupils so wide that Sam could barely make out a ring of green around the black.

"He didn't see…"

"Easy, Dean, it's okay," Sam leaned forward, trying to calm his brother.

With more strength than Sam thought he could possess in his condition, Dean pushed him away, and struggled to sit up. The obvious pain that caused him seemed to only spur him into action. He shoved his left elbow under him and leveraged himself into sitting position before Sam could get his hands on his shoulders to push him back. The melted bag of ice fell back against the bed with a wet slosh.

Dean swatted at his hands, still not seeing him, not fully awake. "He doesn't know…"

"What, Dean, what is it?"

Dean swung his legs slowly, stiffly over the edge of the bed. He looked, startled to his left, then back to Sam. Sam pulled his head back in surprise at the look of complete desolation reflecting in his brother's eyes.

"I tried. I tried to tell him…"

Sam collected himself, then reached out to grab his brother's shoulders.

"Dean!" Dean blinked once. His eyes were still wide and shocky.

"Dean!" Sam shook him once and finally, thankfully, Dean blinked again and this time seemed to be more aware of his surroundings. "Dean, do you know me?"

Dean pulled his eyebrows together, "What the hell kind of question is that?"

Sam felt weak with relief. "You awake now?"

Dean leaned back, easing the pressure off of his ribs. Sam kept his bandaged hand on Dean's shoulder, balancing him. Dean blinked wide again as though trying to focus his vision. He looked down at the hand on his shoulder.

"What happened?" his voice was strangely rougher than when he was dreaming. It sounded like it was painful for him to talk.

Sam tilted his head, confused. "What do you mean?"

"To your hand."

Sam looked at the bandage. "I cut it."

Dean lifted his eyes to his brother's, and Sam was strangely relieved to see the usual angry yet protective look in his brother's eyes when he heard that Sam was hurt. "You cut it, or someone cut it for you?"

Sam shook his head. "Doesn't matter now, Dean. They're all dead anyway."

At that, Dean's cheek twitched. "Not all of them."

Sam started to let go of Dean's shoulder and Dean instantly tipped to the side.

"Whoa, easy there tough guy," Sam caught him and eased him back against the pillow, grabbing the bad of melted ice and dropping it on the floor. Dean pulled one leg up on the bed, but left the other off the side.

"What day is it, Sam," Dean asked, his arm snaking around his middle to cradle his ribs. Sam watched his eyebrows pull together and wished for some way to relieve the pain he was in. Beth had been adamant that pain killers would only make him sleep. The one thing he needed. The one thing he couldn't have.

"Saturday."

Dean's eyes flew over to Sam, "What?!"

Sam pulled his head back in surprise. "It's Saturday, man. Why?"

Dean's eyes fluttered closed, but before Sam could react, he opened them again. "I was only in that box…for a night?"

Sam swallowed, then nodded. It had been so dark down there…he could only image how long it had felt to Dean.

Dean put a hand on his face, rubbing his eyes. "Dude, can you get me some water?"

Sam handed him the glass and more antibiotics, then helped him steady his shaking hand to drink. When he'd had his fill, he dropped his head back to the pillow and blinked at the ceiling. Sam leaned back in the chair, watching Dean, unsure of what to say.

"Quit looking at me like that, Sam," Dean muttered.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm gonna disappear."

"You want to talk about it?"

Dean sighed and turned his head away from Sam. "No." Sam opened his mouth, but Dean interrupted anything he'd been preparing to say. "But I suppose I have to, huh?"

Sam took a breath. Dean's aversion to chick-flick moments aside, reliving anything from the previous night or what the _chauchemar_ was making him go through was not something he wanted to make his brother deal with… but he didn't know how else to help him.

"I called Brenna," he said suddenly, not really thinking about it.

Dean turned to look at him, his brows meeting over the bridge of his nose. "What?"

Sam rubbed his unbandaged hand on his jeans, his eyes pinned to his fingers, avoiding the questions in Dean's eyes. "I couldn't think of any other way to help you."

Dean looked up at the ceiling again. "I wish you hadn't done that, Sam."

"I figured, but, man, we don't have a lot of options here," he looked back up at Dean. "And you know she can help."

"No, I don't know that."

"Dean, she can see inside of you," Sam protested. "She's the only one who can help you."

Dean sighed. "Maybe I don't want help, Sam."

At that Sam raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Dean."

Dean turned his head to look at his brother, surprised by the tone in Sam's voice. He sounded… like John.

"You've got broken ribs, you most likely have a concussion, you have a fever, and Cale…" he paused, trying to find a word for what Cale had done to his brother. What that spell had done.

"I know what Cale did," Dean's voice was soft, his eyes downcast. "But…" he sighed. "Sam, Brenna… she…"

Sam knew what Dean couldn't say. Brenna saw things – things Dean didn't want her to see.

"Give her a chance, man."

Dean sighed shallowly and cupped his ribs with a grimace. "She better not drive that Grande National all the way by herself."

Sam shook his head. Some things would never change. The sound of someone clearing their throat drew the brothers' attention. Joss stood in the doorway, Dean's silver pistol and knife in his hand.

"Hey," Sam greeted.

"Hey," Joss returned, his eyes on Dean. Dean pushed out his lips in thought, trying to adjust on the bed to a sitting position. Sam was instantly in motion, pulling the pillows up and helping Dean prop himself carefully against them. Dean shot Sam a brief look of gratitude. The movement caused a sheen of sweat to break out on Dean's face, but once he could again take shallow breaths he looked back up at Joss, waiting.

"I thought you might miss this," Joss said, tossing the sheathed knife on the bed at Dean's knees. Sam grabbed it and handed it to his brother so that Dean didn't have to bend. Joss dropped the pistol at the foot of the bed.

"Thanks," Dean said, still watching Joss.

Joss stared back, and something cold flashed through his eyes. Sam, unable to stand on the outside of this obvious battle of wills, broke in.

"What the hell is going on," he first looked at Joss, then turned to rest his eyes on Dean's profile.

Dean took a breath. "Sam," he stared, then pulled his eyes from Joss to look at his brother. "There's something else I didn't tell you about that night."

Sam's jaw hardened. His eyes flashed a spurt of anger and he sat back. "What," he said, his voice a dead echo of his usual eager searching.

Dean pulled in his bottom lip, thinking, then looked down at the knife's hilt. "I knew about the _chauchemar."_

Sam tilted his head in confusion. "What do you mean, you knew?"

"I didn't know that was what it was called. But, I knew that it could become a nightmare witch. I just… I just thought it would be immediately."

Sam's eyes darted, thinking about the apparent little he did know about that night. Dean had drawn her to holy ground, she'd held Judah captive, Dean had fought her and somehow had been cut enough to bleed a "small circle"… a half-spoke phrase that Dean had uttered in the hotel room flashed back to him.

"Whose idea was it to use your blood, Dean?"

Dean met Joss' eyes. "Judah's."

Sam's jaw clenched. "Why?"

Dean didn't reply. Sam looked at Joss. Joss finally dropped his hard gaze from Dean's eyes. "Because he was close to death," Joss replied, his voice a soft confession.

"What?" Sam asked with disbelief. Dean had said he'd been hurt. He'd said it like he'd gotten a bruise or bumped his head. Not like he'd been… "What do you mean?" he looked at his brother. _Please tell me I didn't almost lose you and didn't have any idea. Please tell me you didn't purposely block me to fucking protect me from you dying…_

Dean looked at him, his eyes heavy with pain and exhaustion, "Sam, listen –"

Sam knew right away that Dean was about to deflect with another excuse. "Dammit, Dean, don't you _dare_ do this to me."

Dean's chin trembled and he clenched his jaw. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't ask for aspirin, he didn't ask for anything, and Sam felt a flash of empathetic pain as he watched Dean try to move beyond the pain and focus on his confession.

"She…she had a way to make objects move," Dean said, his voice low and weary. "She had Judah, and she… pulled my gun out of my hand."

Sam waited. He remembered Joss' words from earlier. _The battle was brutal…I didn't know how to help without getting your brother or mine killed_.

"I had my knife… I charged her, and…" Dean closed his eyes and tipped his head back. His lips twitched and he reached across himself to press a hand against his wounded ribs.

"She turned his knife on him, cut his leg, deep, and he went down," Joss continued, watching Dean. Dean didn't move, he kept his eyes closed, his hand protectively wrapped around his side. "He taunted her, she released Judah, and she attacked him. The struggled carried him around the cemetery lot…so you see… the circle it was…"

"What?" Sam snapped. "Convenient? He saved your brother, man."

Joss nodded, looking down. Sam continued in his rant, not realizing that he was expecting Dean to stop him.

"What made Judah think –"

"Sam, you weren't there. You did not see – Dean, he… you looked like you were…" Joss looked up at Dean, then his eyebrows narrowed and he straightened away from the wall. "Dean?"

Sam looked over at his brother. Dean had slumped slightly to the left, his breathing coming in harsh gasps once more.

"Shit," Sam exclaimed, standing over Dean, trying to straighten him up or at least relieve the pressure on his ribs. "Goddammit, Dean," his voice was more of a plea than a curse. Dean's skin was hot to the touch again and his pulse was racing. Sam eased him down and tried to take the knife from him, but Dean gripped it tighter. This time, at least, it had the sheath fastened.

Still holding Dean's shoulders, Sam softly asked Joss, "What did he mean, he thought it would be immediate?" He rested his eyes on Dean's restless face.

Joss shifted his wait from one foot to the other. "He said she would… she would enter him. And that when he died, she would go with him."

Sam closed his eyes as a hot pain flashed across his heart. _Damn you, Dean. _When, Sam wondered, would his brother ever realize that he didn't have to sacrifice himself? That _he_ was worth saving.

"When did you realize that she was gone?"

"Judah, he knew..."

Sam straightened and looked over his shoulder at Joss. "What?"

"Judah said that he knew it was Dean, it wasn't the witch. I believed him… with Judah, you just believed. So we wrapped his leg and took him back with us."

"Did you burn her?"

"Dean did," Joss said softly, "The next day."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sam fisted his hands over Dean's and bowed his head. He was so tired. He was tired physically and mentally and emotionally. He was tired of fighting and winning and still ending up empty-handed. He was tired of watching his brother suffer, of the hollow feeling that told him this was it for Dean, he would never have anything else, of the guilt that followed that thought saying that he would have something else – he would get out one day, and that by doing so, he'd leave his brother behind. His brother who had sacrificed everything for him.

The rate of Dean's breathing increased and he turned his head away from Sam. Sam pulled at his bottom lip absentmindedly. In the background he could hear the noise from the now-busy bar, the clinking of piano keys, Beth calling to Paul and Paul answering, cars passing by on the street outside… normal lives, living, breathing, being…

He looked at his watch. They'd been back at _Katr_ for just over four hours now. Somehow, he expected to have more time before she started to pull Dean under, but as he watched the pained expressions on his brother's face, and the painful way he arched his neck and turned his head as though struggling, he knew that the _chauchemar_ was at work. Dean didn't dream like this. Not that he'd ever let Sam know about anyway.

He looked over his shoulder at Joss. "Why are you still here?"

Joss looked stricken by Sam's tone. Sam knew he should have tempered it, but he couldn't help but feel as though this were happening to Dean because of the Coulees. Unfair perhaps, but so was having to sit helplessly on the sidelines and watch his brother struggle to defeat evil when he should be standing next to him fighting.

"Sam, I –"

"Dad!" Dean's voice cut in, harsh and raw. His eyes were closed, but his head turned toward Sam.

"Dean?" Sam leaned in.

"Goddammit, Dad," Dean growled, his voice low, he seemed to be trying to roll to his side, away from Sam, but that would be onto his wounded side, so Sam put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Where they hell are you?" Dean finished his lament.

"He – he did just that," Joss said, his voice shaking as he watched his friend's breathing increase and pain dance across his face.

Sam had both hands back on Dean's shoulders now, and looked back over at Joss. "What do you mean?"

"In the churchyard… after… when Judah killed the witch, Dean, he, called for your father. He thought he was there," Joss finished.

Dean's arm came up, the hand that clutched the knife swiped at the empty air next to Sam's head. Sam was suddenly, viciously reminded of Dean's nightmare before they reached New Orleans. He'd called for Dad then, too. And it was then that he'd concluded he was to blame for the people Cale had killed.

Sam swallowed, trying to hold his brother down, trying not to hurt him further. Dean's eyes suddenly opened wide, again, not focused. He looked at Sam, and Sam didn't know if he could see him or not.

"Too dark, Sam," he said, his voice low and frantic. "Turn on the lights."

"The lights are on, Dean," Sam whispered back, trying for soothing but hitting somewhere around not-panicked.

"It's too dark, Sam!"

"Dean, man, wake up, okay? It's not dark, it's her. She's doing this."

"Turn on the lights… don't…" Dean's eyes closed and he relaxed in Sam's hands. Sam was near-shaking himself. He eased his brother back and ran a trembling hand over his eyes. Somehow he knew Dean's next words. _Don't leave me alone in the dark_. He took a breath and stood up. He suddenly knew what Dean must feel like during one of Sam's visions. He wanted to hit something, hard. He turned around and saw Joss.

Joss took one look at Sam's face and stepped back. Sam closed his eyes, willing his frustrated rage under control. _It's just so damn unfair_, he thought.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?" Beth said from the doorway. Sam's eyes flew open and he stared at her. Joss spared Sam a hasty glance, then turned and ushered his mother out of the room.

Sam began to pace. He was exhausted and was running on worry and rage. He glanced down at Dean each time he passed the bed in his pattern. After the third pass, he realized he was unconsciously moving through Dean's eight-step pace of worry. He stopped next to the bed and pressed his palms to his temples, then ran his hands through his hair.

"God, I don't know how to help you, man," he muttered. He turned to face Dean's bed, hands resting on hips. "Why didn't you just _tell_ me about that time before, Dean?" He railed at Dean's still form, watching his bandaged chest rise and fall in rapid bursts as Dean fought in a place Sam couldn't get to. "Why do you do that all the time… when will you believe that I'm not worth more than you?"

Dean's head turned to the side and Sam found himself holding his breath, but he didn't open his eyes. Slowly Sam sank into the chair. If they'd gotten there sooner… if he hadn't waited to return with Joss… would he have been able to stop Dean from going through this? _Probably would have just gotten my fool self killed…_ he rubbed his face. He just wanted a break… was that too much to ask?

With a spent sigh, he leaned forward so that his head rested on the edge of the bed. He just wanted to close his eyes for a minute… just a minute. He put a hand on Dean's arm so that he'd feel if Dean stirred. A moment later, Sam slept, and the opening the _chauchemar_ had been waiting for revealed itself.

www

_The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep._ It had worked for Cale. He hoped it worked against the _chauchemar_. Then he heard her laugh. It sounded like something slithering through dried leaves. Until this moment, Dean was sure he could outlast her. Now, he felt fear wrapping around his heart.

She had been pulling him under, pulling him away from the waking world, away from Sam. She'd flashed him through his worst memories, twisting them so that what had really happened was erased and her version of reality had flashed across his eyes. He'd forced himself to remember that it wasn't real, that it didn't really happen that way.

When Sam was five he'd been learning to ride his bike. He hadn't quite mastered the back-pedal break and had slipped off the driveway and into the road before Dean had realized what had happened. However, instead of his nine-year-old self sprinting off of the curb and grabbing Sammy's jacket pulling the boy into his arms before he joined his bike under the wheels of the red pick-up truck, the _chauchemar _had shown him in harshly realistic colors that the truck had hit Sam before Dean could get there.

He railed against her, cursing her, taunting her. She pushed back, pushed hard, into his mind, making him cry out, making him twist away.

When he was sixteen he and John had hunted a werewolf while Sam waited safely in the car. The werewolf had lunged at his father and Dean had shot it, clean, through the heart before anything could happen. But when the _chauchemar_ showed him this memory, she'd slowed his feet just enough, pulled his aim just enough, and no amount of calling out, no amount of warning saved his father from the viscious tear of the werewolf's powerful, poisonous jaws.

He'd been able to pull himself away then. He was back with Sam, back in the light, back in reality. But Sam…his eyes… the betrayal he saw there when he started to tell him the truth about New Orleans. The first time. He couldn't tell him before – how could he tell him that? How could he tell him that he'd called Dad and that he'd _told _Dad it was a nightmare witch, but that Dad hadn't believed him? Not only not believed him but had hung up on him. Sam, already constantly a hairs-breadth away from anger when it came to Dad, would have been furious. Dean had almost let himself believe that the snub had meant that Dad was on his way… until he didn't show… until he didn't answer his phone.

How could he tell Sam that he'd almost let himself give in, almost let her take him, had been willing to go? Sam _had to_ believe that Dean would never give up. He had to believe in Dean. If he didn't, if Sam let go of that… it would kill Dean. He let Joss speak what he couldn't bring himself to say... and she took him under.

She took him to the moment he'd returned to where he'd last seen John, after the witch was dead and once he could press the Impala's gas pedal without pain radiating through his leg, and had found nothing. His Dad had left without a note, without an explanation, without a trace. All Dean could think of was getting Sam. He had to find Dad, but to do so, he _needed_ Sam.

Instead of allowing that, the _chauchemar_ had trapped him inside of his head, wrapped in a thick coat of darkness so complete and suffocating he felt like she'd somehow buried him alive. He now hated the dark – he hated how alone he felt, not seeing anything with his eyes wide open. He wanted to go find Sam. That's what was supposed to happen next. And then, there was that laugh.

He suddenly felt as though he were being pulled by his chest through a wind tunnel. He threw his hands out to try to slow himself, but the darkness was complete in its emptiness. And just as suddenly as the evil Space Mountain dream trip began, it ended. He looked around him. He was in the churchyard. _The_ churchyard.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," he muttered. The stone coffins were scattered around him like a maze. The small church was off in the distance. Dean knew that if he turned to his left he would see Joss hiding in the trees, his father's crossbow hanging loosely in his grasp.

He glanced down and saw the dirty jeans, black AC/DC T-shirt, and blue cargo jacket he'd had on that night. This time, however, his hands were empty.

"Shit," he muttered. Her cackle echoed across the still cemetery. Dean swallowed and stepped forward, purposely _not_ looking for Joss as he had before. With the way she was twisting his memories, he didn't want to see what she would do to him.

Her voice chased her laugh across the churchyard, "Come out and play, hunter." It sounded like a high-pitched child's voice, taunting, laughing, and completely creepy.

Dean narrowed his eyes, walking slowly toward the church, away from the sarcophagus garden. He licked his lips, pulling his lower one into his mouth as he thought about his next move. She'd erased weapons from his memory. He hadn't looked for Joss. What about Judah?

In that moment, the _chauchemar_ appeared ten paces in front of him. She was exactly as he remembered. Beautiful, with waist-length white-blonde hair and large, child-like blue eyes. Dean stopped in his tracks, staring at her.

"You don't play nice, hunter," she pouted. Her small mouth turned down into a frown.

Dean remained silent. Waiting her out. He'd taunted her sister until the Voodoun had forced herself into his mind, his soul. He didn't know if she could do that, and he didn't know if he'd survive it. So he simply watched her, his chin low, his eyes up, his hands loose at his sides.

"You have played this game before," she taunted, her lips curling up in a smile, her eyes alight with mischievous danger.

_Too many times_, Dean thought.

"You will lose this time," her voice suddenly turned deep, dangerous, and the mischief in her eyes flashed to a sadistic glee. With a flick of her hands that he almost missed, she threw something long and silver at him. He dropped, tucking an arm over his head. He heard it clatter against the headstone behind him.

He rolled out of her range, and scrambled behind the headstone. A knife? His knife? Is that what she'd thrown? He chanced a look around the headstone and saw she was gone. He quickly reached for the silver object. It was an arrow. It looked a lot like the arrows Joss had brought with him that night for the crossbow – although, Joss had never ended up using them.

He looked at the tip. It was stained red with blood.

"It's hers," the child-like voice was back, and Dean couldn't suppress a jerk when he saw that she was now standing right in front of him. As he stared at her, the ambient light that had been present since he recognized his surroundings began to fade until he could see nothing clearly but the witch in front of him and the arrow in his grasp.

"The blood of my sister now stains your hands, hunter," she narrowed her large eyes and her voice deepened once more.

Raising the arrow in front of him like a weapon, Dean pressed his lips together, about to sound off a sarcastic retort – anything to prove not only to this witch but to himself that he was still in the game, that he was still fighting. But before he could open his mouth she disappeared and in her place he saw his family. All three of them. Staring across at him.

"And you will watch them die," the deep voice of the witch whispered in his ear, sounding louder, stronger with each word. "Just as you feared you would. Just in the way you feared you would. And you will be alone. In the dark. Forever."

Dean tried to push himself away from the open, trusting eyes of his family, tried to push himself to his feet, but he couldn't. He sat, almost huddled against the headstone, the arrow in front of him like a crucifix against a vampire, and watched in horror as flames shot up around his mother and she reached out to him, screaming. Dean narrowed his eyes against the bright blaze and tried to look away, but couldn't. Before she was completely consumed, John fell to his knees, his arms spread to his side, crying out in pain, an unseen force slashing bloody tracks across his face and chest.

"Dad!" Dean cried out, trying desperately to move, fighting against the invisible hold on him, panting with the effort. Mary vanished in the flame and John bled and bled. "Dad, no!"

John's eyes rose to meet Deans, but the slash marks cut through his forehead and across his eyes and John screamed and Dean pressed against his invisible bonds. And just before John collapsed onto the ground, Dean heard the one sound he knew he'd never survive.

"Dean, please," Sam cried, clutching his head as he did when the visions hit. His brown eyes were shut in pain and he'd pulled his lips tight against his teeth. "Please, help me."

John fell to the ground, unmoving. Dean pinned his eyes on Sam, using every ounce of his waning strength to fight against the force that held him fast. "Sam," the name fell from his lips like a plea. _Not him, please, not him. I can't… not without Sam…_

"I know," came the deep voice of the witch, and then the child version laughed.

Dean roared a wordless cry of frustration as he watched blood ooze from Sam's ears, watched his brother sink to his knees, watched blood spill from his nose and when Sam lifted his eyes to Dean, he watched the blood pool in his eyes and spill over down his cheeks in twin red trails. Dean knew he was going to lose him.

"NO!" he cried out, finally, finally able to break the bonds and rush toward his brother, dropping the arrow and catching Sam as he fell forward into his arms. "I've got you, Sammy. I've got you."

Sam's body relaxed into his grasp and just as Dean reached to touch Sam's face, his world was once again darkness. And he was alone.

www

Sam didn't know what woke him. For a brief moment, he'd forgotten. For a moment, he'd just been near Dean, sleeping. But then he realized suddenly that he couldn't feel Dean's arm beneath his hands. He jerked his head up, unsure how long he'd been sleeping, and saw immediately that Dean's bed was empty. _How the hell –_ He looked to his right and saw him. His stomach dropped at the huddled position of his body, the trembling of his outstretched arm, the horror in his eyes.

"Dean," he whispered, sliding out of the chair and practically crawling over to his brother. Dean sat against the wall, his back in the corner, his knife exposed and held in front of him as if to keep something horrendous away from him.

Sam eased over to him, reaching out a tentative hand to try to take the knife. Dean's eyes were wide, but he wasn't seeing Sam – he wasn't seeing this room. And by the look of pain in them, Sam didn't want to imagine what he _was_ seeing. He was trembling so badly that the knife shook.

"Dean, please," Sam whispered. "Let me have that, okay?"

Dean didn't blink. His horrified stare was beginning to unnerve Sam. He touched Dean's hand, and the second that he did so, Dean's eyes closed and his head tilted back against the wall, a terrible roar of pain and frustration shook him and Sam jerked his hand back.

"God, Dean," his voice caught as he watched Dean look back to the middle distance, his lips pressed together, his eyes red and pooling with unshed tears. "Man, what is happening to you?"

"She's going to take him," Beth whispered. Sam jerked his head around and saw that Paul, Beth, and Joss were standing in the room, several feet behind him. He ignored them and turned back to Dean.

"She won't," his voice was hard. "I won't allow that."

Just then Dean screamed, "NO!" with such ferocity that the four people in the room jumped in surprise. Dean dropped the knife and the instant he did so, Sam slid it away, right to Joss' feet. Joss picked it up without thinking, holding it blade down, against his leg.

Sam moved in toward Dean, catching him as he collapsed forward, his eyes sliding shut. Sam sat in a huddle on the floor, his brother in his arms, and looked up at the Coulee family. Joss stepped forward as if to help Sam move Dean back to the bed, but Beth put her hand out and stopped him.

"No, Son," she said, her voice low, decisive. "He is beyond our help."

"What!?" Sam cried, incredulous. The heat from Dean's fever was seeping through his T-shirt and into Sam as he held his brother against his chest, careful of his right side. Dean's head rested against his collar bone and his breathing was rapid.

Beth's eyes were sympathetic, but her voice was hard. "The good of the many, Sam, outweighs the good of the one. If she defeats him, it will unleash a terror like you have never seen."

Sam clenched his jaw. "Lady, you have no idea what I've seen." He gently eased Dean to the ground, turning his brother's face away from the group in the room. Keeping his eyes on the Coulees, he slowly got to his feet, standing between Dean and the Coulees.

"Sam," Beth placated. "I know you've been through a lot. And I know your brother has been fighting, but, Sam, look at him. Look at him!" She gestured with her right hand flat, outstretched, to Dean's prone body behind him.

Sam didn't move. He knew how bad off his brother was. And he'd seen him come back from death to defeat evil. He wasn't close to giving up. He stared at Beth, the muscles in his jaw bunching tightly.

Paul spoke up, trying for a reasoning tone, his hands on his wife's shoulders. "Sam, we didn't want this, believe me. We know how much we owe your brother."

At this, Joss jerked his head toward his father in shock. "What are you saying, Papa?"

"Stay out of this Josiah," Paul rumbled, his eyes on Sam.

Joss saw this and slowly moved from his mother's side to stand half-way between Sam and his parents. "I will not."

"Son, you don't understand," Beth began.

"I understand that you're talking about killing someone," Joss spat back. "Killing Dean."

"Josiah!" Paul's voice was sharp and both Joss and Sam jumped. "This evil is like nothing we have ever faced. We could not defeat her if she becomes corporeal."

"We did once before," Joss argued.

"No, you defeated the woman witch, not the _chauchemar_. This is – "

"Hey!" Sam barked. "This… great evil is _inside my brother_. It's in him now and he's burning himself up fighting her."

Beth stepped forward, and Sam saw something he'd missed before. She held a syringe in her hand. "Sam – " she started.

Sam moved like quicksilver, grabbing Dean's .45 from the foot of the bed where it had rested since Joss tossed it there, and pointing it in Beth's direction in one fluid movement.

"Stop," he said, his voice low, dangerous.

"Sam," Paul said, stepping forward. "Please, this is for the best. He won't be suffering anymore."

"No one is touching him," Sam stated.

Beth took another step forward and Sam cocked the gun. "No. One. Is. Touching. Him."

"I hope I'm interrupting something," said a cool feminine voice from behind Paul.

The Coulees stepped apart, surprised. Sam went almost weak with relief. Joss' jaw fell open. Brenna stood in the doorway, the strap of her duffel slung sideways over her white T-shirt, her cargo pants rumpled from travel, her hair short and sticking out in tufts, and her eyes wide and predatory. In her right hand, held lazily like she'd forgotten it was there, was the Glock that Sam had given her when they went after the banshee. She looked like a small bird of prey, and Sam wanted to hug her.

"I mean, I _really_ hope so," she continued, flipping her hand sideways in a lazy gesture so that the gun was now tilted sideways, and trained on Paul. No matter the casualness of her stance, there was no denying that she meant business.

Paul and Beth stared at her, Joss looked from Sam to Brenna and back again, and Sam smiled.

"Hey, Brenna," he said, his voice trembling with relief. He kept his gun focused on Beth.

"Sam," she smiled as she said his name, but didn't take her eyes from Paul.

"How'd you get here so fast?"

She lifted a brow. "My broom's parked outside."

Sam grinned. Thank god she flew there, and didn't drive the whole way. Sam was grateful she didn't share _that_ trait with his brother. "It's good to see you."

"Sam," Paul rumbled. "We need to reach a decision." His eyes leveled on Brenna's, and she smiled at him.

"No decision," Sam stated his voice devoid of the warmth he'd shown Brenna. "Dean will beat this. We just have to –"

In that second, Dean screamed. It wasn't just a cry of pain, it was a scream that shook Sam to his core. He instantly pulled his attention from Beth and Paul, whirled around and dropped to his knees next to his brother. Dean's back arched painfully, his hands pressed into the hard tile floor. He sounded as if someone were ripping his soul from his body.

Sam's hands shook as he tried to figure out where to touch him that wouldn't hurt, that would stop that anguished cry. Beth took a step forward. Unsure if her intention was to help or harm, and wanting to protect her from Sam's wrath, Joss stepped in front of her, his large hands on her shoulders. Paul too moved, but Brenna's "Hey!" stopped him.

Dean stopped screaming, his back fell flat against the tile, and his breath raced from him in harsh pants. Sam found his pulse and it was racing, his skin burning to touch.

"God," Sam swallowed. "Dean?" He shook his brother once, but Dean's head just rolled to the side, giving Brenna her first clear look at his bruised face. Sam heard her gasp. He could feel her need to get over to them, but she stayed where she was, unsure if she could trust the Coulees to stay away.

Joss spoke up, looking at Brenna. "Go," he said.

She tilted her head to the side, studying him. He felt like he'd suddenly been stripped naked.

"Go to them," Joss encouraged.

She moved past Beth and Paul, nodded her thanks to Joss, and as she crouched down next to Sam she shoved the Glock into her bag. She lifted the strap over her head and dropped the bag at the foot of the bed. She gave Sam a small smile, touching her shoulder to his as she reached for Dean's face. Her intent was to see if she could read him – she usually needed to see someone's eyes to do so, but with this… she thought if she could just connect to him through touch, then perhaps…

She touched his burning forehead and without warning she was suddenly falling, tumbling, careening down a dark tunnel into nothing, no light, no air, no sound. She tried to open her eyes and realized they were already open. She turned around and tried to see something, anything, but it was as if she'd been put inside a seamless, airtight box. With horror, she realized she was where Dean was… the _chauchemar_ had cut him off and put him in the dark and he had no way to fight, and nothing to fight with.

Sam had watched Brenna's eyes roll back in her head and seen her body stiffen when she touched Dean. It had taken him by surprise, and it took him a full five seconds to realize that she wasn't breathing. He grabbed her slim wrist and pulled her forcibly away from Dean.

"Brenna," he shook her once. She opened her eyes wide and he saw the irises flex wide.

"Sam! Wake him up wake him up wake him up," she said, her teeth chattering.

"How?" Sam asked desperately.

"I don't' know, God, Sam, just do it!" she tried to still her shaking hands. "He's alone in the dark, Sam, she's cut him off… it's completely… just _wake_ him!"

Sam swallowed, and reached out for his brother. He touched Dean's face, turning it toward him. Dean's brow was lined with pain and his lashes were in tee-pees from the sweat on his cheeks. Sam gripped Dean's shoulders, careful of the scratch marks on the one.

"Dean," he said, shaking him once. "C'mon, man, open your eyes."

Nothing.

"Dean!" he tried again. "Listen to me man, listen to my voice. She's _not_ stronger than you, you hear me? YOU HEAR ME, DEAN?" Sam shook him again, on his knees now and leaning over his brother. Brenna sat nearby, afraid to touch him again until Sam got him back.

"She's NOT stronger than you. Fight her. You are the most stubborn bastard I have ever known, Dean, you _fight her_. You hear me?"

Dean's eyes fluttered. His lips pursed once.

"That's it, that's it, man, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon…" Sam's fingers tightened on his shoulders. He ignored the sounds of Beth's tears behind him, of Paul's low murmuring. He ignored the presence of Brenna beside him. His whole focus was on Dean. "Open your eyes, Dean. OPEN YOUR EYES."

Dean blinked once, heavy and slow, but it was a blink.

"You have never backed down from a fight in your life, man. And I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving," Sam almost chanted, willing Dean to wake up.

Dean blinked again, and this time his eyes stayed open. Sam huffed out a shaky laugh.

"Hey, man," he said, smiling at Dean in complete relief.

"Sammy," Dean said, pressing his lips together and forcing a swallow. He reached up with his left hand and gripped Sam's wrist where it met Dean's shoulder.

"I'm here, man. And Brenna's here. She's gonna help us."

Brenna leaned in, her breath catching at the sight of Dean's green eyes. "Hey."

Dean's eyes floated over her face, and a corner of his mouth pulled up in a weak smile. His eyebrows pulled together in what looked like confusion, then smoothed out. He lifted a brow at Brenna and tilted his chin in a sign of recognition.

"You cut your hair."

www

_a/n: A belated thank you to Thru Terry's Eyes for teaching me some of her Jedi knife-throwing secrets. _

_Bluio asked about the language the Coulees speak – that it's close to French, but not really. Louisiana Creole is a dialect specific to the region. I've tried to remian true to what Creole or Cajun people living in New Orleans would say -- a mixture of Creole and English. I tried to insert a link that anyone could go to for more information, but the site wouldn't save it. Sorry._

_Stay tuned… Chapter 6 will hopefully be up soon... _


	6. Chapter 6

**_Disclaimer/Spoilers/Explanation of Creole language use:_** _See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: Brenna speaks a mixture of Gaelic and English (just as the Coulees mix Creole with English). So, hoping that ya'll can hang with me on this, I have a bit of mixture on the languages, but I've inserted the translations in the text and where I couldn't naturally do so, I put them at the end._

_Thanks so much to everyone who is reading and for all the reviews. I really appreciate you taking the time to tell me what you think of the story. _

_Slainte is tainte, Kelly._

_www_

_All within my hands_

_Love to death, smack you 'round & 'round and_

_All within my hands_

_Beware_

Within My Hands Part 6

The adrenaline that had been coursing through Sam's system since waking and finding Dean huddled in the corner, knife out, started to seep from his pores as his brother blinked up at him. It left him shaking from the inside out, and as Dean lifted his head with the intent to sit up, Sam wasn't sure if he'd be able to hide the trembling from his brother.

"Easy," Sam instructed as he reached behind Dean's shoulders to lift him from the tile floor. Dean hissed at the movement, but other than that remained silent. "You okay?"

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean said, low in his throat. Sam and Brenna exchanged twin looks of exasperation.

"I heard that," Dean grumbled. Brenna dropped her eyes to the top of Dean's head and grinned ruefully.

"You want to sit back up on the bed?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean nodded once, his eyes trained forward in concentration. Sam hooked his arm under Dean's and rocked back on his heels to leverage Dean into a semi-standing position.

"Holy shit," Dean gasped, his hand immediately going to his ribs.

"Take it easy, man," Sam soothed, his voice a low current in Dean's ear.

"This sucks out loud," Dean ground out, having to lean on Sam more than he wanted to in order to get over to the bed.

"No hurry."

Dean knew that Sam was wrong. There was a hurry – a huge hurry. He was running out of time. He felt hollow, spent, exhausted. He'd felt himself ripped from his last memory and thrown into a dark pit where he hadn't been able to move, to see, to speak, and all he could hear was the _chauchemar's_ harsh breathing. Until he'd heard Sam's voice, calling him, demanding his return, pleading for him to fight. Dean had never been able to deny Sam… and his brother had trumped the darkness long enough for Dean to fight his way back to the light.

Sam eased Dean back onto the bed, then looked up, meeting Joss' eyes. Joss stood at the far side of the room, in front of his mother, but next to his father. Beth peered out at Sam from behind Joss' arm. Sam rested his eyes on her for a moment, then turned back to Dean. Dean shivered and tried to wrap his arms around himself.

"Here," Joss said, picked up the blanket that must have been discarded when Dean managed to get himself out of bed and into the corner, and crossed the room to hand it to Dean. Sam helped his brother wrap the blanket around himself, and leaned down to catch Dean's eyes.

"Water," Dean whispered.

Brenna brought him a glass and he accepted it with trembling hands. She took it back from him with a small smile, then sat down on the edge of the bed near his knees. She simply looked at him, watched him tilt his head back in a gesture of complete weariness, then lift it up again swiftly to locate Sam. Once he saw that Sam was sitting next to him, he allowed himself a small moment to breathe, and stared at the pattern of the blanket. She shook her head slightly at that.

When Sam had brought him, bleeding and unconscious to her house, she immediately put Sam to work gathering supplies to save Dean's life. Dean had awakened without Sam near him and the panic had been palpable. These two… their connection was unique. Anyone who took time to observe them for even a moment could see that they quite literally wouldn't survive without the other. On the heels of that thought, the scene she'd walked into flashed through her memory and she lifted her eyes to meet Beth's.

The older woman visibly flinched when met with Brenna's gaze. She looked from Brenna to Paul and back again. Paul's eyes simply narrowed. Brenna could feel him studying her. Something about this man exuded power, and she didn't want to tangle with him unless absolutely necessary.

"Dean," Sam said, leaning forward so that he was in Dean's immediate eye-line. "We have got to figure out a way to get rid of her."

"Ya think," Dean rasped.

"Dean," Brenna spoke up. She noted that he lifted his chin to acknowledge her, but didn't meet her eyes. He was hiding from her, she realized. The _chauchemar_ had weakened his defenses enough that his walls, where not crumbling, were transparent. He knew that if she saw his eyes… she'd see his weakness. And she had learned quickly that he believed he couldn't afford weakness.

"I brought some…herbs and stuff… they'll help you," she said softly, knowing he'd remember.

His mouth quirked in a half-grin. "No potion?"

"Not this time," Brenna answered, glancing up with gratitude when Joss stepped forward to take the water glass from her. She moved from the bed to get to her duffel, aware that Joss stayed close to the brothers, but didn't look at either of them directly.

"A witch?" hissed Beth. Brenna and Dean froze at almost the exact same moment. Sam stood up, next to Joss. "You called a _witch_ to help you?" Beth's eyes were pinned to Sam, incredulous.

"Hey," Sam spoke up, intending to mount an outraged defense of his friend when he felt a hand on him. He looked down and saw Dean's hand gripping his wrist. When he looked at Dean's face, he realized that Dean was looking at Brenna, standing behind him. Sam pivoted, looking from Brenna to Beth. Dean dropped his hand, reaching across his chest to hold his ribs.

"Well, I suppose it takes one to know one," Brenna said with a raised eyebrow, her tone controlled, low and icy. She let that settle on Beth like a cloud for a moment before continuing. "Who better to fight a witch than someone who might know how a witch thinks?"

Sam pulled his eyebrows together. "Brenna, you're not –" Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the subtle shake of his brother's head, and stopped. Dean was watching Brenna. He seemed to be…waiting for something.

Brenna's eyes, once again her normal gold-green, were fastened on Beth.

"This witch killed my son," Beth said. Paul put a hand on his wife's shoulder.

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Brenna said, sincerely.

"Your _herbs_," Beth spat the word as though it were a curse, "will do nothing to help him." If she hadn't pointed at Dean when she spoke, Sam would have thought she was speaking about Judah.

"Can't hurt to try," Brenna argued. She stepped forward so that she was level with Dean's shoulder, dropping her hand on him in an almost casual gesture, but Sam saw Dean pull in his breath at her touch. Joss shifted so that he was next to Sam, watching the interchange between his mother and Brenna with morbid fascination.

"Oh, yes it could," Beth argued, also stepping forward, out of the reach of Paul's hand. "It could delay just long enough… we need to act _now_."

"To do what," Brenna shot back, "euthanize him?"

Dean's eyes flew up to Sam's in surprise, but Sam shook his head once. Dean continued to watch his brother, holding his hand against his wounded side, trying in vain to press back the constant ache and the hot beat that shot through him with each breath. He could feel exhaustion pulling at him with greedy fingers. He could feel the witch in his mind, like an itch he couldn't scratch. He could feel her moving, hear her muttering. He could _almost_ see her… he blinked again, hard, forcing her away, forcing her back.

"We have to think of the consequences," Beth argued once more. "There's no way you are powerful enough to defeat her when he loses this battle." The contempt in her voice as her eyes raked over Brenna was plain.

Sam saw Brenna's shoulders stiffen, and he slid his eyes askance to Joss, saying softly, "Hold on to something."

"All right, that's enough," Brenna said, her voice hard. "Out. Get out. Now."

Paul spoke up, "You are in our home," he began, but stopped, his face registering surprise.

Sam knew from the expression on Paul's face that Brenna's eyes had turned predatory. He glanced briefly at Dean and saw the shadow of his brother's usual cocky grin turning up his mouth. He looked like he was…proud of her.

"Yeah, I got that," Brenna snapped at him, "But my friend here is kinda in the middle of something important – important enough that you would rather _kill_ him than risk him losing." Her wild eyes raked over the two elder Coulees. "Sam and I are going to help him beat this, and then we'll be out of your hair. So, all due respect, get the hell out."

Beth's lips trembled, and for a moment Sam felt sorry for her. Then he saw that she still had the syringe in her hand. Paul leveled his eyes on Sam and Sam was unable to stop himself from standing to his full height in the wake of that stare.

"You had better know what you are doing, Sam," he said, his rumble leaving no room for misinterpretation.

"He does," Dean spoke up for the first time, his voice rough, but sturdy. He was still watching his brother and saw Sam's eyes shift over to him, a conspirator's smile on his lips.

Paul stepped up to Beth, put a hand on her shoulder and steered her out of the room. Joss let out the breath he'd been holding. He looked from Sam to Dean to Brenna.

"Should I leave?"

Brenna didn't look over at him, her eyes on the door the elder Coulees had just walked through. "You gonna try to kill him?"

"No," Joss answered, horrified by the thought.

"You can stay," Sam answered.

www

"Now that that's over," Dean rasped, "Somebody mind telling me what the hell I missed?"

Brenna withdrew her hand from Dean's shoulder and Sam saw his brother sag slightly in the wake of her touch, as though he'd been stronger somehow while they'd been connected. He moved over to sit in the chair next to Dean's bed while Brenna resumed her search through her duffel.

"Beth is just scared, Dean," Sam said softly.

"Who isn't," he shot back. "They were gonna kill me?"

"No," Sam answered, shaking his head once. "They would never have gotten close, man."

Dean met his brother's eyes and saw something there that he'd always admired about Sam. Certainty. Sam never doubted them. Never doubted _him_. Despite the ambiguity his visions had tossed his way, Sam still had enough faith in what he believed in to give him the strength that would carry him through the toughest situation.

"Seriously, man," Sam said in a low voice meant for only Dean to hear. "You okay?"

Dean took a shallow breath, and, ignoring the pounding in the back of his head from the gash, he lifted his eyes to meet Sam's. He didn't say anything, but one look in his brother's eyes was all Sam needed to find his answer. Dean wasn't okay, and, worse, he was scared. Sam pressed his lips together and gave his brother a small nod. For an instant, Joss and Brenna disappeared and the brothers existed in a moment that belonged only to them. A moment where they told each other without words that they would never give up.

"Hey," Brenna broke in, her voice a soft echo of her earlier bravado. She stepped up next to the bed, holding a small jar of the purple paste she'd used on Dean once before. "Don't want this to go to waste. It was hell getting it on the plane."

Dean shifted his eyes to the side, still not looking directly at her, and lifted a brow. "You _flew_ here?"

The corner of Brenna's mouth lifted. "Sam said to hurry," she answered. "Besides, I figured you'd ream me for driving the Grande National the whole way alone."

"Damn right," Dean answered automatically. He slowly leaned his head back and to the left and allowed Brenna to apply the paste to the cuts on his shoulder and at the back of his head. "Let's…can we –" she lifted her eyes to Dean, who was looking away from her, then Sam who was watching his brother. "I need to get to your ribs, Dean."

"Do it," he said tiredly.

Joss, who had been hovering close, dug through a drawer and brought back scissors and more bandages. Brenna cut away the bandages that were wrapped around Dean now, exposing the ugly bruising and the stitched up tear low on his right side. She sucked in air over her teeth at the sight.

"Sonuvabitch," Dean gasped as the bones shifted without the support of the bandages. His eyes slid to Brenna's face. "Pretty, huh?"

"Well, it certainly is a rainbow of colors," she muttered, applying the paste to the tear as well as the bruising with gentle, even strokes. As she worked, she talked, drawing Dean's attention to the sound of her voice and away from her ministrations.

"The nightmare witch isn't tied to New Orleans," she began, her voice low, soothing, but her touch enough to keep Dean from succumbing to sleep. "She isn't unique. She is… multi-cultural, really. And she _can_ be defeated." She glanced briefly at Joss who was staring at her like she was the first woman he'd ever seen. "You parents' fear is warranted, but…" she shrugged, reaching for more paste and gently covering the sutured tear.

Dean pressed his head back into the pillow and his neck arched a bit, but he didn't make a sound. Brenna continued. "According to Celtic lore, the nightmare witch feeds on your fears and paralyzes you in your sleep. She will continue to take you to your worst moments and twist any good moments until you have nothing left. She doesn't kill you," she said, her eyes drifting from Dean's set jaw to Sam's worried eyes. "You simply die."

"Why?" Sam asked, his eyebrows meeting over the bridge of his nose.

"Because… it hurts too much to live," Dean muttered, not looking at his brother.

Sam flinched at Dean's tone, shifted his eyes to the side, then back to Dean. He clenched his jaw and breathed in through his nose. "What can we do?"

Brenna finished with the paste, then reached her hand back for Joss to drop the bandages into it.

"Gonna have to sit up for a sec," she said to Dean. He blinked his understanding, and reached for Sam's hand. Sam grasped it, thumb to thumb, and leaned back, his other hand behind Dean's shoulder, easing him up.

While Sam supported him, Brenna leaned forward and began to wrap his chest tightly – tighter than the bandages she had cut off of him. The room was silent except for the pain filled puffs of breath from Dean as he held as still as possible. Brenna finished binding his ribs, and the paste seeped into his skin, its healing properties already beginning to ease the terrific ache that had been ever-present since Riggs had introduced his foot to Dean's side.

When Brenna was done, Sam eased him back up against the pillow. Dean tried to get his breath under control. Brenna sat, looking in his direction, but not really looking at him.

"Thanks," Dean managed, watching her face, but careful not to meet her eyes.

"_Tá fáilte romhat_," she replied somewhat distractedly. Dean and Sam exchanged a confused glance.

"Come again?"

Brenna looked up. "What?"

Sam shook his head with a shrug, "You just… said something in Gaelic…"

Brenna blushed, "Sorry, I was… I think I know how you can fight her, Dean."

Surprised, Dean looked up and she caught his eyes with hers. He tried to look away, but her gasp made him stop. His breath coming in short bursts, he let her hold his eyes, let her see. He could see her eyes flash wide as she _saw_ him, he could see her lips part briefly in reaction, and he could see her head pull back as though to get away. But she stayed. Looked into him, and stayed.

Brenna had been right about the transparent walls. When she'd looked at Dean before, two months ago, she had never really seen _him_. He was too far in the background of his own mind – there was too much of his father and brother there for her to find him. Now she realized that he did that on purpose. He put Sam and John before him because he didn't _want _to see himself. What she saw, the Dean she saw, was both brighter and darker than she could have thought.

His dark side shook her, and his light blinded her. The dichotomy of both existing inside of the one man explained so much to her in that fraction of a second. His light would always win, because it was shining on his family. But she could see the constant struggle to overcome the dark – and if the focus of the light were ever removed, she feared for him. If his father or brother were ever taken from him, Dean's fight with the darkness inside of him would be epic.

"Dean?" Sam's voice broke in, sounding worried and young. He'd seen their eyes catch, he'd seen Dean freeze and saw Brenna's reaction. At first he thought she was just looking at him, but then Dean's breathing had changed.

Dean blinked and looked away, sagging against the pillows. "Yeah," he breathed. "S'okay, Sammy."

Joss spoke up. Sam had almost forgotten he was still there. "You said that you knew how Dean could fight the _chauchemar_."

Brenna blinked. "Yeah…right. Um," she looked over at Sam, and he was surprised by how shaken she seemed. What had she seen when she looked at his brother? "Uh, he needs to anchor himself."

Dean's eyebrows went up. "To what?"

She looked back over at him, but this time she didn't try to meet his eyes, needing to be prepared the next time that happened. "To something good, some memory she hasn't twisted. Some place you can hold on to when she tries to throw you into the dark."

Dean's eyes flew up to her face. "How the hell did you know about that?"

Brenna pulled her brows together and wrinkled her nose up slightly. "I somehow…fell in there when I touched you earlier."

"How?"

She shrugged, irritated. "I don't know how…" His expression was angry, his eyes hot. She glared back. "It just happened, okay? You were screaming, and I reached out, and there I was."

Dean instantly looked away, "Son of a bitch."

"Dean, don't," she began.

Sam sighed. He had to distract Dean from the knowledge that they'd heard his scream. "So, if Dean…goes to this…happy place," he said, thinking, "he'll be able to defeat her?"

Brenna looked over at him, ruffling her short hair with an impatient hand. "No, but he can hide from her."

Dean shook his head. "I don't hide."

"Yeah, well, get over it, because she's winning," Brenna snapped at him, her eyes hard as she looked at him.

With a heavy sigh, Sam dropped his head into his hands, his dream from their first night in New Orleans echoing in his head. _Sammy… she's gonna win… don't let her win…_ He'd thought it was Cale. When he found Dean in that box… he'd thought the dream had been about Cale. But it was all tangled now – he hadn't realized it was a vision… it hadn't _really_ been a vision. It was a dream, but it was all mixed up in his head. They'd thought Cale was the enemy. And while evil, Cale was just a player in the production of the _chauchemar._

"Sammy?"

He heard Dean's voice, and with his face still buried in his hands, he closed his eyes. He knew that the hollow-eyed, emaciated face he saw in that dream could still become a reality. If the _chauchemar _got her way, his brother would be gone and from the looks of him now, it wasn't going to take much.

"Hey, man, talk to me," Dean's hand reached out and rested on his knee, drawing his attention. Sam pulled his hands from his tired eyes and looked down at his brother's hand. He never noticed it before, but Dean had the same hands as John. Wide palms, powerful, but blunted fingers. The silver ring that Dean always wore glinted in the overhead light. Sam pulled in a breath and looked up at his brother.

"You okay, man?" Dean asked, and Sam almost laughed at that question being directed at him in a voice that shook with pain and fever. But that was his brother. Sammy first. He didn't know how he would ever change that. He had no idea what would have to happen for Dean to allow himself to be the one cared for.

"Yeah. Yeah, Dean, I'm okay."

"We'll get this bitch," Dean said, tapping Sam's knee lightly.

_We'd better,_ Sam thought, looking at Dean as he leaned his head back against the pillow and shivered. _Because I can't let her take you…_

"So, how do I get to this happy place?" Dean asked.

Brenna took a breath. "I can show you."

Dean pulled his lips together, then lifted his eyes to hers, shuttering them as best he could.

She scooted forward on the bed so that instead of sitting at his knees, her hip was at his waist. She rested her hand on his warm hand and looked at him. "Trust me, Dean."

He blinked. She'd asked him to do that before. And if he recalled correctly, the end result was that he'd been taken and tortured by a banshee.

She narrowed her eyes, knowing where his thoughts were going. "So not my fault."

Dean licked his lips, flicked his eyes once over to Sam sitting near the head of the bed, and then back to Brenna. "Okay."

"We just need one moment for you to hang onto, okay?"

He nodded and lifted his eyes to hers. He watched her eyes go wide and predatory, and held himself as still as possible as she reached out and rested her cool hand against the fever heat of his face.

As soon as she touched him, Brenna was lost. She didn't see his green eyes silently pleading with her to make it right. Instead, she found herself watching the movie of his life flick by on high-speed. It went so fast she couldn't assimilate what she was seeing. She concentrated, trying to get him to stop on moments he felt true joy, or real peace. The scenes played faster and faster. She saw them slow momentarily where he might feel relief or pleasure or satisfaction, but she wasn't seeing _it._

Then, everything slowed. She watched from an outsider's perspective. She saw Dean walk through a door into a dimly lit room, blood on the side of his face. She saw Sam behind him, deep, painful looking cuts on his left cheek. Both were staring at a third figure. She tried to see him…and then he stepped into the light.

She'd never met him before, had never so much as seen a picture of him, but she'd recognize John Winchester anywhere. He had Sam's eyes and Dean's smile. He stood still, looking at his boys, and then she watched Dean stride forward without hesitation to step into his father's embrace. As his hands fisted in the back of his father's jacket, she saw _the_ moment – relief, joy, forgiveness… peace. It reflected back in the memory of Dean's eyes like a beacon.

With a gasp she dropped her hand and blinked. Dean shook his head and looked from Brenna to Sam.

"Did it work?" Sam asked.

Dean kept his eyes on his brother and nodded. "Yeah, Sammy," he said.

On the heels of those words, a feeling of vertigo washed over him and he felt himself tipping to the side, his vision graying. He heard Sam call to him, felt his brother's hand on his arm, and he desperately clung back. He knew what was happening. He knew she was pulling him back, but he wasn't ready… he couldn't go… not yet.

"No," he whispered desperately.

"Dean!" Sam was calling him. "Dean don't let go of me, okay, you hang on."

_Focus on Sam… focus on your hand on Sam's arm, focus on his grip_. Dean tried to pull in deep breaths and realized with tremendous relief that doing so didn't cause excruciating lances of pain through his side this time. Willing his eyes open, he tightened his fingers on Sam's arm and forced himself back.

When Sam saw Dean's eyes blink clear and look at him, he smiled with relief. "That's some kung-fu grip you got there, man."

"Better believe it," Dean whispered. He didn't want to let go.

"She is going to keep coming for you," Joss spoke up. He'd retreated to the corner of the room, watching the connection between Sam and Dean with a painful heart. He hadn't been as close with Judah, but he remembered what it was like to have a brother. And he felt both empathy and envy for the Winchesters.

"Dude, tell me something I don't know," Dean said tiredly.

Joss pushed away from the wall. "I will."

The three other occupants of the room turned shocked eyes on him. Joss' eyes skimmed over Sam, almost ashamed to meet his eyes. He looked at Brenna, and again felt exposed and vulnerable under her stare. And then he looked at Dean.

"You have to go back to the churchyard."

Dean's eyebrows pulled together and his lips pursed in confusion. "What?"

"In your mind, you have to take her back to the churchyard. You must kill her there, just as we did before."

Sam stood from his chair, tension radiating from him. Joss knew he deserved it; he lifted his dark eyes to meet Sam's accusatory gaze.

"You knew this all along?"

Joss licked his lips nervously. "The night that Judah left to… to confront the Voodoun," Joss began, pressing one hand flat against the wall. "He told me he had figured out why she was killing these men. He told me," he swallowed, nervously, "that she was looking for us."

"Not you," Dean whispered, shaking his head. "You never left the tree line."

Joss pressed his lips together in regret. "No._ Mon fre _spared my feelings with this inclusion. But you are right. I never even loaded my bow." He moved away from the corner of the wall, leaving a sweaty handprint behind.

Sam tracked his movement with angry eyes, waiting for the rest.

"Judah, he knew things… I do not know how. I never asked. I simply believed," he looked up at Sam, flinched a bit in the heat of Sam's anger, and looked away. "He said that Dean had been right… that the witch we killed would become the _chauchemar_. But that the Voodoun would have to call her."

"We know all of that already," Sam growled. "What does that have to do with the churchyard… with Dean?"

Joss swallowed nervously and glanced at Brenna as if for support. The ice in her gaze rivaled the heat in Sam's. Ironically, the only solace he found was in Dean's tired, wounded eyes.

"Judah was going to lure her to the churchyard. He said that if he killed the Voodoun the same way we – you had killed the witch, the power, the connection would be forever severed."

Sam's throat worked convulsively. "But you… you let us go in there and… kill her. At the house."

Joss nodded.

"Why?" Sam asked.

Joss pressed his lips together and lifted apologetic eyes to Sam. "My Papa, he… he did not trust me."

Dean had watched Sam's stance as he faced Joss, and when Joss said this last part, he saw Sam flinch as if struck. Sam turned his head quickly to look at Dean, as if remembering something. Dean raised questioning eyebrows, but Sam said nothing.

"So," Dean said, then unexpectedly coughed, holding his ribs as he did so. "So, I just need to get her to the churchyard, create a circle of blood, and cut off her head," he panted. "Piece of cake."

"No," Sam protested, turning to fully face his brother. "No, you're not strong enough, Dean."

"You don't get to say no, Sammy," Dean said softly, watching his brother's face. "Not unless you have a better idea."

Sam almost said _let me do it_… the words were hovering on the edges of his lips before he remembered that he couldn't… this fight was all within Dean's hands. There was no way he could climb into his brother's head to face off this presence that was slowly chipping away at Dean's reserves from the inside out.

"I'll go with you," Brenna spoke up.

Dean lifted a brow. "What do you mean?"

"Let me… in there."

"Like before?"

She shifted on the bed so that her hip was touching his waist, her hand resting on the opposite side of him, leaning close. "Like before, only, when she pulls you under I go with you."

Sam shook his head. He liked this idea even less. "What if you can't get out?"

She slid her eyes to Sam's. "If Dean gets out, I get out."

He swallowed and his eyes shifted from Dean's weary ones to Brenna's determined ones. He would have no way of knowing what was happening… he would just have to believe that Dean was fighting her, that Brenna was strong enough… he would just have to watch. He looked back at Dean and didn't mask the complete helplessness he felt.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean said automatically, seeing the misery in his brother's eyes. "I'll come back."

"You damn well better," Sam said, his voice low.

"Here," Joss stepped forward, handing Dean his knife. "You had this before."

Dean accepted the knife, its weight comfortable and welcome in his grip. "Don't know how much good it will do in here," he pointed the tip of the silver blade at his temple.

Joss shrugged. "Sometimes you have to choose to believe."

Dean rotated his tired neck, feeling the flash of pain in the gash on the back of his head. He started to say something to Sam when he suddenly felt her pull at him again, this time stronger, and this time, Sam wasn't holding on to him. His eyes darted to Brenna's, and then he blinked once, his vision graying. Before he closed his eyes for the second and final time, though, he felt her cool hands on his face, her thumbs stroking a familiar pattern under his eyes.

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He stood in the churchyard, dirty jeans, AC/DC T-shirt, blue cargo jacket, empty handed. He hadn't thought the knife would come with him. He looked to the tree line for Joss, but saw only darkness beyond the trees. He looked up to the church and saw the witch standing on the low hill just beyond the building. She watched him silently. In a blink she was standing three feet from him, her wide, child-like blue eyes staring balefully at him. Then she smiled.

"Come play with me, hunter," she called, then disappeared.

Dean looked down at his hands, willing the knife to appear. He looked around at his feet for the arrow that she'd thrown at him before. He looked up at the church – they'd never made it inside before, but that didn't mean it wouldn't have something in there… something he could use to cut himself and create a circle of blood… something silver he could use to kill her.

"No entry for you, hunter," the child's voice whispered in his ear. "It won't let you in."

He felt a tugging sensation in his heart, causing him to stumble. He took a couple of steps toward the church and the tug came again. He recognized it for what it was this time. She was about to pull him away, to put him in the dark. He suddenly remembered Brenna. She was supposed to be here… he looked around and saw that he was still alone. Just as before.

When the _chauchemar_ tugged a third time he went to his knees. This time the voice in his head wasn't the witch. This time, it was Brenna. _Find your anchor, Dean._

_Dad…Sam…_ Dean remembered walking into that room, seeing his Dad… he remembered the feel of his Dad's arms around him… the complete relief that he was alive, that he was there… the instant forgiveness for all that came before… the joy at seeing John and Sam talk – just _talk_… at seeing Sam hold onto their Dad. He held on to that moment and he felt the pull lessen until it released him.

He pushed himself back to his feet, and looked up. She was back on the hill.

"Clever hunter," she pouted. "Why won't you play with me?"

"Playtime's over, bitch," he growled. He stepped forward. He didn't have a clue as to how he was going take her out, but he knew he couldn't stay where he was. He just hoped something would occur to him before it was too late.

"It's too late now," the deep voice whispered through his head and again in a blink, the witch was in front of him, her hands reaching for his throat.

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Sam's eyes darted between Brenna and Dean. Dean's face was flushed and sweaty from the fever that always spiked when he was pulled into the nightmare world. Brenna's eyes darted in fierce concentration. He rubbed his face with his hands, dropping his eyes to the side of the bed. He saw Dean's hand resting on the hilt of his knife. Sam tilted his head to the side. Something about that looked… wrong. When had he not seen Dean hold his knife in a vice-like grip? He reached down and covered his brother's hand with his, closing Dean's fingers around the hilt.

Just then Brenna's eyes blinked open wide.

"He's in trouble," she breathed.

Sam searched her face. "What –"

"Sam," she barked, looking at him with wide eyes. "He's in trouble."

Sam was about to come out of his skin. "What can I do?" Unconsciously, his hand tightened over Dean's fingers around the knife.

Almost blindly, Brenna reached out and not knowing what else to do, Sam caught her small hand in his larger one. In that instant, he fell out of his reality and into Dean's. Forgotten by the other three, Joss stood off to the side, watching. Seeing Dean lay with Brenna on one side, a hand on his face, Sam on the other, a hand on his hand, and Brenna and Sam's hands clasped across his body, he realized he'd never seen anyone more connected to life as this man who was close to death.

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Sam blinked, off balance. His vision swam for a moment, but when he could see clearly, he looked around himself for Brenna. He could still feel her hand in his. He could feel the hard surface of the chair he sat on…only he wasn't sitting… he was standing in the middle of a… graveyard. He could feel Dean's fingers under his, but when he looked down, he instead saw Dean's knife in his grip.

"What the hell?"

_He's in trouble, Sam!_ Brenna's voice was in his head, frantic.

Sam suddenly remembered what Joss had said. The churchyard. He was at the churchyard where they'd killed the witch a year ago. He looked up and saw the church in the distance, and about ten yards from him, he saw his brother. A beautiful blonde woman with the biggest blue eyes he'd ever seen had her hand around Dean's throat and Dean was struggling in her grasp.

"Hey!" Sam yelled, moving toward them at a run.

The witch, startled by this sudden, unwanted appearance of another player in her sandbox, released Dean. Dean dropped to his knees, his hand at his throat, dragging in huge gulps of air.

"You're not welcome here," the witch bellowed, the intensity of her anger causing Sam to stumble back a couple of paces.

"Yeah?" he retorted. "Same goes for you."

She hissed at him and vanished.

Sam ran up to Dean who was pushing himself to his feet. He reached out and grasped Dean's upper arm to help him stand; almost instinctively Dean wrenched his arm from Sam's grasp. Sam blinked at that. This Dean wasn't bruised and broken. This Dean wasn't weak from fever. This Dean…

"Sam! What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

… was pissed.

Sam opened his mouth, but Dean's expression changed from anger to panic to suspicion in a heartbeat.

"Wait, this is _her_ isn't it?"

"What? No, Dean, it's me."

Dean took a step back, tilting his head to the side. His feet scissored across themselves as he walked a slow circle around Sam, keeping his eyes pinned to him. "You're just a memory that she's planted. I've seen you die one too many times," he said, his face pulled into a dark frown.

Sam involuntarily jerked. He remembered the dead body lying over the grate at Cale's. He had figured out what the Voodoun had done then to try to break his brother. He had no idea what else the _chauchemar_ had made Dean see. How many times his brother had been forced to watch him die?

"Dean, it's me. I don't know how I'm here, but it's me."

Dean's motion didn't cease and his body had relaxed into what Sam could very easily recognize as a fighting stance. "Prove it."

"How?"

"Tell me something only Sam would know."

Sam tightened his grip on the knife, but oddly, felt Dean's hand under his instead of the knife hilt. What could he say that Dean would believe – that he wouldn't think was the witch taunting him… testing him.

"When I was five you taught me how to ride a bike and I almost –"

"Got hit by a truck, yeah, yeah, we've done this one already."

Dean's voice was hard. He'd heard this tone before, but never directed at him. He'd always been safely behind that tone, those eyes, watching as the anger was unleashed on a deserving party.

"Uh… you saved me back in Lawrence," Sam scrambled, trying desperately to think of _something_ that would convince Dean.

"Which time? See, that's weak. Sam would know better," Dean growled, stepping forward. A feral smile pulled his lips against his teeth. His hands tightened into fists.

_Shit_, Sam thought. "What are you gonna do, Dean, attack me? I've fought you off before…oh, but wait that was the shapeshifter."

Dean paused, his expression didn't change, but he paused.

"It sucked, too, because he knew everything you knew – all the moves that Dad taught us. But he fought dirty. You made me work for it, but you'd always pull your punches at the last minute," Sam started talking faster, seeing Dean's shoulders begin to relax. "He didn't. And the time in Lawrence? I was thinking of the lamp chord, dude."

Dean's fists opened. "Yeah?"

"And you thought I was out of it, but," Sam swallowed, keeping his eyes on Dean's. "You held onto me just a bit longer as soon as I was free."

Dean straightened. "Yeah."

"Yeah." Sam nodded back. So much could be said with just a shared word. He lifted the corner of his mouth in a hesitant smile.

Dean echoed the smile, "It's you, huh."

"It's me."

"How?"

"Told you Brenna could help."

"But she's… she's not here," Dean looked over his shoulder, then back at Sam. Sam shrugged, then he jerked back in surprise. The witch was suddenly standing just behind Dean. One second there was nothing and the next, her white-blonde hair and anime-eyes were Dean's shadow.

Dean saw Sam's eyes go wide and started to turn. The witch didn't give him a chance. Without touching him, she began to drag him backwards, away from Sam. Dean felt the tug on his heart, the pull into the darkness. He tried to focus on the moment that Brenna had taken him to, but there was suddenly a shrill scream inside of his head.

"Not this time, hunter," she cried out, a demented, angry child's voice.

"Son of a BITCH," Dean growled. His vision darkened and the graveyard and Sam began to fade. He reached out, thrusting his hands out to grasp onto something, _anything_, to keep him from the dark. A hand grasped his outstretched arm, strong fingers wrapped around his wrist and Dean twisted his hand to grip back.

The hand brought him to the moment, _his_ moment, to his Dad, to his family. Snatches of their voices echoed through his head as he tightened his grip and pulled toward the resistance with all of his strength. _She was the bad guy, right?... Yessir… Dad you don't have to worry about us… 'course I do, I'm your father… It's good to see you again… it's been a long time._

The _chauchemar_ released him with an angry scream and Dean hit the hard earth with a thud. The fingers were still wrapped around his wrist. He pushed himself up, panting, and lifted his eyes to meet Sam's worried eyes.

"I got you," Sam panted.

"You bet your ass you do," Dean agreed, keeping his eyes on his brother, words of gratitude seeming inconsequential in the moment. "Good job, Sammy."

Slowly, as though afraid they would be pulled apart again, they sat up and released each other. Dean pushed himself to his feet first, then reached down to give Sam a hand. They stood side by side, surveying their surroundings.

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"We gotta end this."

Sam looked over at Dean, noting the tremor in his voice, the pain that seeped through. Dean stood, poised, ready, his arms loose at his sides, his eyes on the church in the distance. But his jaw was tight and his eyes were tired.

Sam looked down at the knife in his hand. A circle of blood… he didn't know how Dean and Judah had managed to get her into a circle of blood before – other than possibly drawing it around her -- and this time it would be even more difficult, because she would be expecting it. But before they could worry about that, there had to be a circle. Without further hesitation, he brought the razor-sharp edge of the knife to his palm and sliced across the base of it, hissing as he did so.

"What the hell, Sam!" Dean's voice was outraged.

"If she's gonna be bound to anyone this time around, it's _not_ going to be you," Sam said through clenched teeth.

"It _has_ to be me," Dean yelled. He reached for the knife in Sam's hand, but something stopped him. He couldn't make his fingers move, couldn't reach it.

Sam saw and said softly to his brother, "Sometimes you have to choose to believe."

He stepped away from Dean, clenching his wounded hand in a fist and letting the drops fall on the grass as he moved around Dean in a circle, keeping his brother at the center. He glanced up and saw Dean press his lips together, and narrow his eyes. He barely felt the knife leave his grip – his only sensation being that of Dean's fingers under his, tightening around the grip in the bed back at _Katr_, back in the world.

He saw the knife in Dean's hand as he finished the circle, Dean at the center. He met his brother's eyes and was about to say that he wasn't sorry for doing what he'd done, when he saw the light leave Dean's eyes and a dangerous darkness take over. Sam looked back over his shoulder and saw the witch standing not four feet away from him, on the other side of the circle.

"Sam," Dean said, his voice low and steady. "Get out of here."

"Dean – "

"Sam! Go!"

"Why won't you play with me, hunter," the witch taunted. Sam faced her and saw that she took no notice of him. She had her eyes pinned on Dean. He stepped back a few paces, watching.

"Come here," Dean said to her, his voice pitch low, almost… seductive.

"You want to play?"

"Come find out," Dean said again, his eyes on hers, his blink slow.

The witch flashed a child's smile. "You think I am defeated that easily?"

Dean took two steps forward, toward the edge of the circle. One more step and he would be outside of it. "I could ask you the same thing."

"You are already defeated. I know what you fear."

Dean shook his head and Sam saw his jaw muscle jump. "You only think you do."

She tilted her head and regarded him with mischievous eyes. He heard his own voice plead _Don't leave me alone in the dark_. "So simple, hunter. So easy to win."

"You're not gonna win," Dean growled.

"You cannot stop me," she claimed, her eyes narrowed in defiant confidence.

"I wouldn't bet on that," Dean said, taking one more half step forward. His next move was so fast, it took Sam a moment to register what he was seeing. Dean reached forward and grasped the witch at the back of the neck with one hand and with the other he plunged his knife into her belly.

She threw her head back and screamed, lunged at him, knocking him backwards and tumbling both of them back into the circle. She reached for his throat and he let go of the knife needing both hands to keep her enough away so that her other-wordly strength didn't immediately crush his windpipe.

Sam started forward, but Dean saw out of the corner of his eyes. He literally growled at him, "No! Get back."

Sam stopped at the edge of the circle, breathing hard, his eyes darting trying to keep Dean in his line of sight as the witch went completely ballistic. She screamed at him, clawed his face with her nails, reached for his throat, his eyes, alternating between the two. Dean kept her from suffocating him and reached for the knife, pulling it out of her body.

He managed to throw her off of him and backed up away from her in a crab-like crawl. She started to circle him. Then she saw Sam. She shifted her manic eyes from Sam to Dean and her smile was twisted in its insanity.

"Poor hunter," she teased. "Can't stop it. Can't stop it."

She turned toward Sam.

"Stay away from him," Dean growled. He moved to a low crouch. If she touched Sam… if she so much as _breathed_ on him… "You will beg me for death before this is over," his voice was low and carried with it an undertone that Sam had never heard from his brother before.

The witch's eyes lit up at his anger and she began to reach out to Sam, but her hand bounced off of an invisible barrier, unable to touch him. The circle of Sam's blood protected him, keeping the witch, and Dean, trapped inside, but protecting Sam. The witch reached for him again, and Sam flicked his eyes from her face to Dean's, surprised at the satisfaction he saw in his brother's eyes.

"Guess I can stop it after all."

Sam swallowed at the look of rage that crossed her face, and opened his mouth to call out a warning to Dean as she turned to face his brother, the rage that he saw erupting from her in an outraged scream.

Dean was on his feet, though, his knife held at the ready. He lunged for her again, this time burying the blade deep in her neck. Her scream was cut off, but her hands swiped at his face with renewed force. Dean knocked her feet out from under her and followed her to the ground, not releasing his grip on the knife's hilt. His body was pressed down on top of hers, holding her down with his weight.

He clenched his teeth, his lips pressed together in the physical effort it took to hold the knife and dodge her swinging hands. He grabbed her long hair in one hand and with the other, thrust down on the knife as hard as he could. Her struggles slowed, then ceased. He rolled away from her, pulling the knife from her deeply slit throat, ignoring the blood that coated the blade, his hands, his arm, his clothes, and held it against his chest, panting from his efforts.

He started to lift his eyes victoriously to Sam when she suddenly, impossibly reared up at him, again lunging for his throat. With a startled cry, Dean reacted instinctively, swinging the blade at what was left of her throat, severing her head from her body. He closed his eyes and turned his head away as the witch's body dropped onto him.

With a disorienting flood of light, he opened his eyes and saw that he was back in _Katr_'s infirmary. He pulled in a breath, his eyes darting frantically until he found Sam, sitting next to him as before, his eyes wide and confused. He looked to his other side and saw Brenna. All three sat staring at each other, breathing as if they'd just run a marathon.

"Is she gone?" Joss asked, having watched them return to themselves with a physical jolt.

Dean looked down at his hands. Though his knife was clutched in his right, they weren't covered in blood. He reached up with his left hand and ran it over his face carefully. No gouges or scratches. He looked over at Sam.

"You okay, Sammy?" His voice was rough as though he'd been screaming. He looked at Sam's hand – no cut, no blood.

"Yeah, you?"

"Yeah."

"Man, that was…" Sam started, blinking at Dean. He was still reeling from what he'd watched, from what he'd felt. The darkness that had entered his brother's eyes just before he fought the witch had frightened him… he always knew what to expect from his brother, except… in _that_ moment, he hadn't been sure.

"Unbelievable," Brenna finished.

Dean looked over at her, eyes raised. "Where were you?"

"I was…" she blinked, trying to figure out how to explain what had happened. "I was connecting you."

"Connecting?"

She licked her lips and looked at Sam. "You didn't need _me_, Dean. You needed Sam. He just couldn't get to you without me."

Dean slid his eyes to his brother, thinking. Once he'd believed that it was really Sam there with him, he never doubted that he could defeat her. Without Sam, he was alone in the dark. With him, he was powerful.

"Thanks," he whispered to Sam.

Sam lifted a corner of his mouth. "Welcome."

"So," Joss asked again. "Is. She. Gone?"

Dean's eyes shot up to Joss, "She's gone." He looked back down at his hands. "She's gone," he repeated, softly. He couldn't feel her anymore. But he knew he'd never forget. She'd clawed her way through his walls to get to what he hid from everyone – including himself. The darkness inside was what he feared the most… if he were ever left alone to fight that darkness, he was afraid he wouldn't survive.

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_Translations:_

_Slainte is tainte. Health and wealth._

_Tá fáilte romhat_. _You're welcome._

_The last parts should be coming soon… I'm just fine-tuning them and getting them beta'd. There is one more chapter of similar length and possibly an epilogue. Thanks for hanging on for the ride… hope you enjoy the rest._


	7. Chapter 7

**_Disclaimer/Spoilers/Explanation of Creole language use:_** _See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: This chapter is what I would call the storm after the calm after the storm. All I could think about was how everything hits you **after** the crisis has passed. _

_Thanks for all of the reviews. Even when the alerts are down, it really makes my day. _

_Thanks, Kelly._ _Ar scáth a chéile a mhairimid. _

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_I will only let you breathe_

_My air that you receive_

_Then we'll see if I let you love me_

Within My Hands Part 7

Dean let them talk around him. His mask of sarcasm had been stripped away, and he didn't want to deal with the fallout of the wrong person noticing. It was over. She was gone. Cale was gone, Riggs was gone, and for the second time in his life that freaky-ass child-witch was gone. Listening to the dull hum of the voices in the room he stared at his hands, laying palm-up, open in his lap. It had felt…good to kill her. And that worried him.

_The woods are lovely dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep._

He couldn't get the verse out of his mind. He felt like he'd been exposed, laid bare, and that he was scrambling to pick up the pieces of his memory and tuck them safely back behind the wall. He didn't want anyone to see, he didn't want them to know, he had to keep them out, so he let Robert Frost take center stage…just in case anyone was listening.

Sam had been in motion almost from the minute they came back… which sounded strange to Dean when he reasoned that they'd never really left this room. They hadn't gone to the churchyard. He hadn't really hacked off some witches head. He hadn't felt her hot blood on his hands, his face… but, yet, he had.

"…over to the hotel," Sam's voice broke into his thoughts. He hadn't realized he'd been counting the rhythm of the verse until he looked up at his brother and thought _eight…promises to keep makes eight beats_.

Dean blinked, and focused on Sam. "Wassat?"

Sam narrowed his eyes, really looking at Dean for the first time since… it ended. His face was no longer flushed from fever, but there were smudges of purple under his hazel eyes and the bruises on the left side of his face seemed darker. The expression in his eyes when they met Sam's was… staggering. His brother was as close to his breaking point as Sam had ever seen him.

"We're getting out of here, Dean," Sam repeated for the benefit of his brother. "Going back over to the hotel."

"Whatever you say, Dude," Dean answered, past caring at this point. He knew Sam wanted to get away from Beth and Paul. He didn't blame him, but he didn't have it in him to say much else.

Dean pushed himself into more of sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Brenna's purple salve was amazing. The ache in his ribs, while present, didn't overwhelm him as he moved. He took a breath and was about to push himself up when a voice in the doorway stopped him.

"She's gone?"

It was Beth. Dean lifted his eyes to her and watched as she stared with cautiously hopeful eyes at each of them. Joss appeared behind her, his hand at her elbow. Dean wondered idly when he'd left the room.

"I told you, _Maman_, he did it."

Beth took another step into the room, her eyes going to Dean. Tears pooled there, and had she not been intent on ending his life less than an hour ago, Dean might have felt some sympathy for what she'd been through. "I-I don't believe it…" she stammered.

Something inside of him snapped at that. He pushed himself to his feet, feeling a strange shaking sensation in his chest, as if he were shivering from the inside out.

"Maybe that's your problem," he said, grasping the headboard of the bed for support. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Sam turn toward him. He ignored him for the moment.

"What?" Beth whispered, blinking rapidly, the tears that had pooled in her eyes leaving twin trails down her cheeks. Paul stepped into the room behind her. His face registered surprise to see Dean on his feet – not standing exactly, but on his feet. Joss stepped off to the side, watching.

"You didn't believe," Dean's voice was low. His green eyes flicked from Beth to Paul and back again. "You didn't believe Judah until it was too late. You didn't believe Joss…" His head swam for a moment, and he felt a hand on his elbow. He knew it was Sam, and he was grateful that Sam did nothing else but hold him up.

"All of this… all of this could have been stopped if you had just fucking _believed_ him," Dean whispered, his teeth clenched.

"Dean –" Paul began.

"I don't want to hear it," Dean stepped forward, away from the support of the bed, away from Sam's hand. The trembling in his chest increased, but his eyes were steady and his voice hard. "I don't want to hear that it was for the best, that you were trying to protect them. I don't want to hear that you had to find out for yourself."

Behind him, Sam swallowed hard. He saw his brother facing Paul and Beth Coulee, but suspected that the words were meant for someone else… someone who should be here, but wasn't… someone who had _left them _to protect them. He stood at the ready, knowing that while pissed, this Dean wasn't the sturdy Dean he'd just seen fight the _chauchemar_. This Dean _was_ bruised and broken. This Dean _was_ weak from fever. And this Dean needed him just as much as the other one had.

Dean took a shuddering breath. "Joss is smart. He knows what the hell he's talking about. So do me a favor," he swallowed, and Sam saw him sway slightly, "next time he tells you how something has to be killed, just _fucking_ believe him."

Paul pressed his lips together. He looked over at Joss, then back to Dean. "_Mo chagren_," he apologized with regret in his voice. Dean couldn't tell who he was addressing, but he didn't care. He was done, spent. And the Coulees were safe. He'd done his job. That's what mattered, right?

The effort it took to stay balanced in the wake of their stares made his head swim, but Dean simply clenched his jaw. Strangely, though his eyes were pinned to Paul and Beth, he could sense where everyone else was, the tension in the room was so high. He could see Joss just out of his eye line, he could feel Sam close enough behind him that one step backwards and they would collide, and he could sense Brenna near, her energy shimmering from her like electricity.

"This fight," Paul started, looking at Dean, his large hands enveloping his wife's shoulders. "It was always in your hands. You knew…" he trailed off and turned to look at his son. "You knew."

Dean said nothing. With one last look toward the boys, Paul steered his wife toward the door. At the entrance Beth paused and looked back. "I hope you boys understand… I was trying to do what I thought was best."

"Just go," Sam said in a low voice, wanting to get his brother out of there.

"Your father will know of this," Paul seemed to promise, a note of something akin to pride in his voice. Dean's eyebrows flashed upward in a brief flinch, but still he said nothing. If Paul thought he could reach John, let him try. They left the room, and Joss followed. Sam tensed as he saw Dean begin to visibly tremble, but he didn't move. Dean stayed sturdy, his eyes on Joss.

"He listened to you," Joss said to Dean, a touch of amazement in his voice. He looked down, saying softly, "_Ki sa se bon."_ He looked back up and met Dean's weary gaze, repeating, "That is good."

Dean shook his head once. "When he listens to _you_…that is good."

With a rueful smile, Joss nodded his thanks, then followed his parents out of the door. The second he was out of sight, Dean's knees buckled and he went down. Sam, who had been waiting for this since he saw Dean let go of the bed, stepped in behind him, catching him carefully before he hit the floor.

"Always gotta have the last word," Sam muttered, as Dean's head tipped back and rested on his collarbone. He shook his head, looking at his brother's pale face and closed eyes. "You'll never stop will you," he whispered.

Dean's eyes fluttered, and then he blinked. He seemed surprised to be looking up at Sam. With an effort he raised his head from Sam's shoulder and blinked his eyes again. He seemed to want to say something, but caught sight of Brenna. She'd been standing, silently, watching him. She seemed to be waiting for something. Dean slid his eyes from her back to Sam and took a breath.

"We goin' or what?"

Sam helped him shift forward so that he wasn't exactly lying in his arms so much as leaning against him. "You think you can make it?"

"It's like two blocks, Sam."

"You couldn't stand for two minutes."

"Get me up."

"Dean –"

"Dammit, Sam, get me the hell up."

"Fine."

Sam stood and hooked his hands under Dean's arms, easing him to his feet. When he was standing, Dean reached out and grasped the headboard to help balance himself as Sam finished gathering their weapons. Brenna stayed where she was, her eyes on Dean. He felt them, felt her gaze. He took a breath, steeling himself against the possible impact of her eyes, and lifted his head.

She just blinked at him. Her eyes remained their normal gold-green. They didn't widen to see him further – she was just looking at him, at what he wanted her to see. She didn't press further. The corner of his mouth relaxed into a small smile at that realization. She pressed her lips together in an answering smile. _It's okay_, she seemed to say with that tiny quirk of her lips. _It's okay._

"Here you go," Sam said, handing him a shirt and his black boots.

Dean stared stupidly at them.

"Dean," Sam said, ducking his head to catch his brother's eyes. "You can't walk out there like that."

Dean looked down at himself, realizing for the first time that he stood clad in only his jeans and someone else's wool socks. His chest was wrapped tight with the white bandages, but other than that, he was shirtless.

"Huh," he said, his head bobbing in surprise. Sam sat the boots down and handed him the button-up shirt.

"It's Joss'. Said he didn't need it back."

Dean took the shirt and forced himself to balance as he eased his left arm into the sleeve. When he lifted his right, however, a hot stab of pain lanced through his side stealing his breath and making his vision go white for a moment.

Before Sam could move, Brenna was behind Dean. She seemed to settle against his back like a shadow, her sturdy body supporting him as he sagged a bit, her arms smoothly, silently lifting his arm and easing it into the sleeve. When she had the sleeve up over his shoulder, she moved around to the front of him and began to button the shirt.

"I can get it," he said, his voice low, chin tilted down and his eyes shifting from her slim, swift fingers to her wispy red-gold hair.

"I think your brother might be tired of picking your stubborn self up off the floor," she said, not looking at him. Before he could protest, she pivoted him, and braced her legs as he found himself sliding down her arms to sit on the bed.

"Now what," he asked.

"Shoes."

"I can put my own damn shoes on," Dean grumbled.

She bounced on her haunches, his boot in her hand, and looked up at him, tossing a wayward curl from her eyes. "Oh really?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Yes really."

She lifted a hand, palm out, elbow bent. "Touch my hand."

"What?"

"Just touch it."

Thinking she'd walked right off the edge of the map with that request, Dean started to lean forward to touch her hand. He hadn't gotten a few inches when the hot pain in his side pulled him up short with a hissed, "Son of a bitch."

She lifted an eyebrow and tilted his boot toward him. Dean looked up at Sam who had been watching this whole exchange with undisguised amusement.

"Little help?" Dean said.

"Looks like she's doing just fine," Sam said with a barely suppressed grin.

"Traitor," Dean grumbled, but allowed Brenna to slide his boots on his feet and tie them loosely. "Hey, wait a minute," he said, cocking his head to the side. "How'd I get these back?"

Sam shrugged, shoving Dean's knife in its sheath and tucking it into the waistband of his jeans. "Joss brought them back with your knife."

"Oh," Dean nodded.

"You ready?" Sam asked him.

Dean nodded and pushed himself to a standing position. His vision blurred and his head rebelled with a vicious thump, and then he steadied himself. Brenna led the way, Dean following slowly, and Sam as close to him as his shadow. His habit would be to say something sarcastic about Sam invading his personal space, but the truth was he didn't think Sam was close enough. He couldn't remember a time he'd felt this weak. The tremble in his chest hadn't abated and every step jarred his ribs mercilessly.

He concentrated on the ground, on following the heels of Brenna's boots, on putting one foot in front of the other, on not falling over. He almost didn't notice when they went outside except that the ground changed from smooth, worn wood to uneven stone, cracked pavement, and faded bricks. By the time they reached the hotel, sweat was rolling down the sides of his face and he had to keep blinking his eyes to clear his vision.

When he saw the stairs, he groaned aloud, using the railing to pull himself up, but not raising his eyes, not looking beyond the next step. He almost didn't notice when Sam stepped up beside him and snaked an arm around his back, under his shoulders holding him up. He simply stepped in beat to the verse echoing in his head _I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep_…

"Sit down, Dean," Sam said softly.

"Huh?" When had they reached the room? He lifted his eyes and looked around at the room he'd been in just two days and a lifetime ago. Their spare weapons were still laying, empty, on the rug inside of the door leading to Sam's room. His open duffel was at the foot of the single bed. Dad's journal was sticking out of the top of it.

"Here," Sam literally moved him to the bed. "Sit down."

Dean did as he was told, looking blankly back at Sam. He should be doing something now, he knew. He should be telling _Sam_ to do something. That was what happened after a job, when they were done, when the people were safe, when the evil was gone. They packed up and left – heading for the next town, the next evil, the next innocent. But he simply sat on the bed and looked at his brother.

Sam emptied his pockets of the weapons he'd been carrying onto the small faux-wood table and Brenna dropped her duffel on the floor inside the door. Sam sighed, put his hands on his hips and shook his head at Dean.

"Dude, you are a mess," he said.

At that, Dean raised an eyebrow, a spark of life in his eyes, "It's been one of those days," he claimed.

Sam nodded.

"We need to put more salve on you," Brenna spoke up.

"Shower," Dean said.

"No way, man," Sam shook his head. "You can barely stand as it is."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, intending to snap at Sam that he could goddamn well decide for himself if he was able to take a shower or not… and behind his lids flashed the site of the witch with his blade in her throat, her large eyes manic, and blood everywhere. He gasped and opened his eyes quickly. He looked up at Sam, but saw his face shift from Sam to Cale and back again. He shook his head and reached up to rub his eyes with a sluggish hand.

"You okay, man?"

Dean didn't answer. He could still hear that voice. Something was wrong. He pressed his fingers to his eyes harder. He could feel the cat's breath on his face, he could hear the child-voice of the _chauchemar_, he could see Cale's snake-eyes laughing at him, see his father's face peering down at him through the grate. Something was _wrong_. He could feel the tremble in his chest increase until it seemed as though his heart was going to jump out from behind his ribs and lay before him on the floor. His breath came faster and he moved both hands to his eyes, pressing his palms into his eyes. The pressure cut the dark with flashes of white light, but also made his head throb with a sudden, blinding pain.

He dropped his hands and opened his eyes wide, expecting to see Sam's face, hoping for his brother's eyes, hoping for his ground, his balance, but all he saw was dark. He blinked again.

_Shit_. Had he been wrong? Had none of that been real? Was he back in that box? He willed himself to slow his breathing, but his head was spinning and he couldn't stop his heart from shaking in his chest.

Then, suddenly, he felt arms wrap around him from behind, a warmth press against his back. He felt soft breath on his ear as he heard a voice repeat to him _the woods are lovely dark and deep…but I have promises to keep…_

He blinked again, and this time he did see Sam. "And miles to go before I sleep," he whispered in a broken voice to Sam's worried face and panicked eyes. He was crouched in front of him, his hands on Dean's knees peering into Dean's eyes, and his lips were moving, but they didn't match what Dean was hearing.

The arms didn't release him, the warmth stayed and he felt the tremble in his chest slow just a bit. The words repeated. He looked at Sam. Sam was saying _easy… easy man, it's okay, just breathe…_

He tried to slow his breathing, but he couldn't seem to control it. And strangely, he felt a burning sensation in the back of his eyes – something he hadn't felt in a long time… something he swore not to let Sam see ever again. He had to stay strong. He had to be brave. He had to protect Sam… from evil, from danger, from himself.

"Sam," he whispered a plea for understanding. He wanted to reach his hand out again, to feel Sam's warm grip firm on his wrist, pulling him out of this, pulling him back, anchoring him. He didn't move. The arms holding him flexed a little tighter around his shoulders and he let out a shuddering breath, his eyes on his brother, watching his brother's steady, worried eyes.

"I'm right here, Dean," Sam whispered. "It's really over, man, okay?"

_You sure?_ He wanted to ask. Because somewhere inside Dean he knew that it was never going to be over. Not for him. This was it for him. Survive to defeat evil and save innocence… save the innocence in everyone but him.

Dean nodded once, working to slow his panicked breathing, working to slow the frantic beat of his heart. Working to _get a fucking grip, Dean_. He licked his suddenly dry lips and slowly, the clutching pain in his ribs resisting, he leaned back into the warmth. He heard her sigh before he registered that it was Brenna behind him. She'd practically wrapped herself around him, avoiding all of his wounds, cushioning him in her arms and with her warmth. And she was still whispering the verse in his ear.

When Dean reached up to rub his face, she released her arms, and scooted off to the side.

"It's dark in here," Dean muttered through his hands.

Frowning, Sam looked around for more lights, but they were all on. He stood, pushed back the curtains from the small window at the foot of the bed and opened it for good measure. The bar down the street, which seemed in constant need of air circulation, once again had its door propped open. Strains of Phil Collins' "In The Air Tonight" carried up to the room and through the window. Sam turned from the open window, and looked at his brother.

_I remember don't worry… how could I ever forget…_

Brenna climbed off the bed and without removing Dean's hands from his face eased him back against the pillows. Sam's eyebrows went up, impressed. He knew from experience how heavy Dean's muscle was and she seemed to move him with very little effort.

…_but I know the reason why you keep your silence up… the hurt doesn't show, but the pain still grows… it's no stranger to you and me…_

Sam seemed unable to move. He simply stood, listening to the ironic words of the song and watched Brenna skillfully maneuver Dean back onto the bed, and remove his shoes. Dean had dropped one hand, keeping the other braced over his eyes. His lips were pressed back against his teeth as though he were trying to keep something from escaping.

Brenna was silent as she moved. Sam watched her unbutton Dean's shirt, opening it to expose the bandages wrapping his ribs, keeping one hand on him at all times. She bent low and reached blindly into her duffel for the jar of paste she'd used on him earlier. Sam could tell that Dean was conscious. He held his body so still it looked like he barely breathed. The fingers on the hand covering his eyes flinched as Brenna began to carefully unwind the bindings, and his other hand fisted in the covers.

Sam watched Dean's hand clench into a fist so tight his knuckles turned white. He noticed again how closely his brother's hands resembled his father's.

"Dean."

"Yeah," Dean's voice was tight, but he answered quickly, as though he'd been waiting for Sam to say something.

Sam moved from the open window to lean against the wall near Dean's head. He dropped his eyes to watch Brenna apply the paste to his brother's bruises, but he wasn't really seeing her. He was seeing a sixteen year old kid with a serious expression replacing his usual careful smirk, a set of throwing knives in his hands.

"You know that demon we killed?"

"The Hulk?"

"Yeah," Sam's mouth pulled into a grin. "I threw an eight inch knife in his neck to the hilt."

"What were you aiming for, his heart?"

A brief laugh escaped. "_To the hilt_, man. Who cares what I was aiming for?"

"You always did have an arm on you," Dean said from behind his hand. His jaw muscles jumped a little, but Sam could see the tension in his shoulders ease slightly as the paste began to seep into his tortured muscles. Brenna started to wrap his ribs again, carefully sliding the bindings under his back so that he didn't have to sit up. Dean gasped once as she pulled the bandage tight across the broken rib.

Sam started talking again, distracting him. "You remember the time we thought we'd practice inside?"

"That time in Oklahoma?"

"Yeah, it was snowing and I was bored," Sam said, his eyes never leaving his brother.

Gasp. "You were always a pain in the ass when you were bored," was said on a tight exhale of breath.

"You were always just a pain in the ass."

At that Brenna's mouth quirked. If he hadn't seen that, Sam would have sworn she had tuned them out.

Sam continued, "You thought we'd use the cork board the motel had in there for the weekly happy hour menu."

"Dude, seriously, happy hour? I mean, come on."

"Dad was so pissed when he came back and we were trying to pry the knives from the wall."

"Coulda had a career in baseball," Dean ground out through clenched teeth, "And this one chooses a career in lawyering."

"No, I chose to be a hunter," Sam correctly softly.

At that, Dean dropped his hand and lifted his exhausted eyes to Sam. "No, Sam. You _are_ a hunter… but you didn't choose this life. It chose you."

Sam looked at him silently, hearing the escape clause Dean laid out for him. _What about you, Dean?_ His eyes searched his brother's. Dean lifted a corner of his mouth in a rueful grin. "This life, Sam…" he paused, unsure how to continue. _It's not what I wanted for you…_

"Done," Brenna broke in. Dean shifted his eyes to her. He realized that he could actually breathe again without pain.

"That stuff's amazing," he said, his eyebrows meeting over the bridge of his nose.

"Be nice to me and I'll tell you how to make more," she said with a small grin that wrinkled her nose.

Dean felt his heart clench a little at that grin. He blinked, then blinked again. He could feel his body begging for escape, for peace, for just a moment of oblivion. But he was afraid to close his eyes.

"You need to rest, Dean," Brenna said, as though reading his mind.

Dean shook his head once. "I'm okay," he said stubbornly, his eyes dropping closed and popping open. "Just need some coffee and a shower, and I'm set."

Brenna lifted an eyebrow, rocked back on her heels and looked up at Sam. "He's your brother," she said with exasperation.

Sam sighed and flipped a chair from the table around backwards so that he could rest his chin on the back of it and stare at Dean. Dean slid his eyes over to Sam and groaned.

"C'mon, man," Dean said. Sam was giving him the look that said _I am more stubborn than you and you know it and I'm going to sit here and stare at you until I get my way_. "Dude, that stopped working when you were eleven."

"Sixteen."

"Still."

"You need to rest Dean."

"I've been resting. I'm the only one who's been out of it around here," Dean protested.

Sam rolled his eyes, allowing his head to follow as he gave Dean a look of exasperation. "You've been fighting a witch. Doesn't count."

Dean made a move to roll to his left side and swing his legs off of the bed, but his head swam, betraying him. "Sam," he whispered so that Brenna couldn't hear. "Please." God he was begging. This was just _wrong._

Sam's voice became soft and he tilted the chair forward so that he could lean close. "What is it, Dean?"

"I – I," he swallowed. "I don't want to go to sleep."

Sam knew why. He'd _seen_ why. "She's gone, Dean."

"It's not that," Dean said. His eyes shifted to Brenna. She was standing at the foot of the bed, one hand wrapped around her waist, the other at her throat. Her heart was in her eyes as she looked at him, and he realized she knew. She already knew.

"Then what is it?" Sam asked softly.

Dean pushed his lips out, his eyes shifting away. "Sammy, what you saw… when you were in my head…"

Sam waited, silently. He couldn't push him to continue. Pushing Dean never got him anywhere but further away from where he wanted to be.

"It was… dark in there," he finished, helpless to find another way to express what he needed Sam to understand. He rolled his head toward Sam, looking at him and for a very brief moment letting him see what no one was allowed to see. Letting Sam see him.

Sam blinked. _Don't leave me alone in the dark_. Darkness literal, darkness figurative… their lives were eternally tangled in the dark and Sam saw that his brother battled it back every minute of every day.

"Dean," he said, his voice cracking. He took a breath and started again, "What I saw in that churchyard was my brother. I saw you defeating evil as you have done your whole life. I saw you protecting me. I saw you do it the only way you knew how."

Dean narrowed his eyes, doubting him. How could that be true when…

Sam leaned forward and put a hand on Dean's forearm. "Sometimes, man, you just have to choose to believe."

Dean blinked and looked away. He closed his eyes with a sigh. "I'm just… I'm damn tired, Sammy."

Sam left his hand on Dean's arm, not speaking.

Dean continued his voice low and slurred as sleep finally lay claim, "I just want to go home."

Sam closed his eyes at that, his forehead dropping onto the back of the chair.

"Home?" Brenna whispered.

"Yeah," Sam said back, his voice muffled by the chair and his position. "He said that earlier, too."

"But… with your lives… I mean…"

"Where is home?" Sam rotated his head to look at Brenna, not lifting it from the chair.

"Yeah," she answered.

He sighed. "For him? I wish I knew."

www

Sam had moved from the chair to the foot of Dean's bed. Brenna had gone into Sam's room to shower and change. She had tried in vain to get Sam to rest as well, knowing that he'd been up as long as his brother. Sam pushed her to the other room and closed the door, giving her some privacy. He dug a well-read novel from the bottom of his duffel, climbed onto the bed and settled himself in to wait. He knew it was only a matter of time.

Dean slept for an hour without moving. He's shifted once to stick an elbow out to the side and tuck his left foot under his right knee, left leg at an angle. Dean was always all angles when he slept. That, or on his stomach with his hand around his knife. He was rarely still, but it was usually not due to nightmares. It was just Dean. Sam knew that something was wrong if his brother stopped moving.

The nightmare began with a low moan, and tightening of his features, a turn of his head. Sam froze, put his book down, and waited. Dean's lips quirked and then pressed together. His brow furrowed and Sam saw sweat bead on his forehead. When his breathing increased, Sam scooted off of the bed and sat in the chair next to Dean's head.

Just as Dean had done for him for years when they were young, and now again recently, he began to talk to him, low and soothing. Trying to ease him out of the dream. The last thing he wanted was for Dean to jerk awake and hurt his ribs.

"Not what I said… not listening to me…"

Sam started at that. Dean had said that before when he'd been caught in a nightmare.

"Dean, hey, man, wake up… that's it, you're okay…"

With a gasp, Dean opened his eyes, looking around him with an instant of panic. Sam recognized this reaction from numerous nights waking from a nightmare into a strange location, trying desperately to remember where he was.

"Hotel, New Orleans, remember?"

Dean breathed in and closed his eyes with a nod.

"You okay?"

"I ever tell you how much I hate that witch?"

Sam curled up his lip, "I think I got the idea."

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Dean?"

"Hm?"

"You called Dad before you fought the witch didn't you?"

"What?" Dean's green eyes widened in surprise.

"You said you called him after," Sam said, trying to keep the accusatory tone from his voice.

"I did call him after."

"But you also called him before," Sam concluded softly. "And he didn't believe you. When you told him about the nightmare witch… he didn't believe you."

Dean looked away, not answering.

"Because of the demon, because he'd found its trail."

Dean sighed, "It wasn't that he didn't believe me…"

"Oh, yeah? Then what was it?"

Dean looked over at Sam, his eyes hard, authoritative. "This is exactly why I didn't tell you."

Sam pulled his eyebrows together and jerked his head back. "What are you talking about?"

"You immediately go after Dad, Sam. The man had his reasons."

Sam's lips thinned across his teeth. "He ever find out what happened?"

Dean looked down. "No."

"He never knew? About the nightmare witch? About your blood in the circle?"

Dean sighed. "There were more important things for me to worry about than making sure he knew about that."

"Like what?!"

Dean pinned him with a stare. "Like you! Like holding you together when Jessica died! Like getting my family back!"

Sam sat looking at his brother in shocked silence.

"Dean…"

"Just… just let it go, man."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I will if you will."

"What are you talking about?"

"How do you think I knew, Dean?"

Dean shrugged. "Figured it was part of your new Jedi powers."

"You keep talking about it in your sleep. It's eating away at you, man."

Dean looked away.

"If you can let it go, then I will, too," Sam finished softly.

"I'm working on it," Dean said softly. He had always had a clear picture of what John was and what he expected of him. But when his Dad had left without any explanation, without any warning, without any discussion, it had sent him into a tailspin that he was only now getting under control… and that was mainly due to Sam. Letting go of that hurt, that confusion… it wasn't even something he wanted to acknowledge existed let alone deal with.

"Hey," Brenna broke in. The brothers shared a look, unsure how long she'd been standing there.

Sam stood up, intending to move back to the bed and offer Brenna the chair, but as he stood he suddenly swayed on his feet and would have toppled over if she hadn't stepped up to him and gripped his arm.

"Sam, go rest," she said, her voice a hard echo of his brother's. "You're exhausted."

"I'm fi –"

"You're not fine, Sam," Dean barked at him.

Sam looked over at him. He had raised himself up on one elbow and was staring at him with a very familiar _I'm-your-big-brother-you'll-do-as-I-say_ expression on his face.

"Oh, it works for you but not me, is that it?"

Dean nodded once. "Pretty much."

"Dean… what if… I don't know… you need something?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, Sam, I'm not paralyzed."

"That's not what I meant."

Dean sighed. "You'll hear me. I promise."

"I'll stay with him, Sam. Please, just, go lie down," Brenna turned Sam around and steered him toward the door.

At the doorway, Sam paused, looking back over at Dean.

"I promise," Dean repeated, his eyes meeting Sam's.

Sighing, Sam went into his room. He hated the idea of not being near Dean now… he knew that Dean was busy compartmentalizing what had happened to him so that he could move on. Dean didn't _deal_… Dean shoved. And Sam knew how much he'd stuffed down over the years. He wondered how much more his reserves could take.

"Brenna," Sam started as he dropped onto the bed. "You have to… I don't know… be careful with him."

Brenna's eyes softened at that. "Better not let him hear you say that," she replied.

Sam grabbed her hand and her attention. "I need _you_ to hear me."

She looked at him, and with her free hand she reached up and gently pushed his shaggy bangs from his eyes. "I hear you," she whispered. "I do."

Sam let go of her hand and lay back on the bed, pulling the covers with him as he rolled away from her and toward the wall. "Just let me sleep for an hour…" he muttered. She stood still and watched. In minutes he was snoring softly.

She stepped quietly out of the room, closing the door behind her. She half expected to return to Dean's room and find him asleep as well. No luck.

"He okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah, just exhausted."

"He's been through a lot in the last couple days," Dean said, his left arm across his forehead, his right resting on his bandaged ribs.

"He's not the only one," she said, stepping up to the window. The sounds of New Orleans in the evening wafted up to her. The wind was soft, warm, and smelled of coffee and spices. She heard a deep mellow voice singing the old Animals' song "House of the Rising Sun" from somewhere below her, his tones amplified by the doorway she guessed he was sitting in.

"_There is a house in New Orleans they call the Risin' Sun, and it's been the ruin of many a poor boy. And God, I know I'm one."_

She looked over her shoulder at Dean. He was staring a hole in the ceiling above him and his jaw worked overtime. She slid the window closed, shutting out the city. The overhead light burned bright as did the lamp on the table. Tilting her head to the side, she watched him.

"What already?"

"Just thinking," she said, not letting him rile her.

He lifted a brow, but didn't look at her.

"We all have darkness in us, Dean," she said, moving to the foot of the bed and sitting down. She was careful not to touch him. For whatever reason, when he was vulnerable like this, or when he was sleeping, their touch pulled her too close to him, and she had to be clear-headed to help him through this.

"Do we have to talk about this," he asked, his voice strained. His left hand flexed into a fist across his eyes.

"No, but," she paused, looking away. "It's not gonna go away no matter how deep you bury it."

Dean swallowed. His throat worked convulsively and she watched him pull his lips tight against his teeth.

"You're worried about how that darkness will affect Sam," she reasoned.

He didn't answer.

"Dean, you're just a person," she said on a sigh. "You're not invincible, and no one needs you to be."

"Sam does," he said, his voice cracking on the last word.

"No, he just needs you to be his brother. And now that he's grown up, that means he needs you to let yourself need him."

Dean closed his eyes. "He's never gonna be able to… be innocent because of this life," he said hesitantly.

"Dean, he _is_ innocent. And guilty. And human. Just like everyone else," she pressed her lips together, trying to find the words he needed to hear. "You protecting him his _whole life_ has kept him from having that same darkness…"

"Well, maybe at least one of us can avoid it," his voice sounded… lost. Brenna remembered thinking when they'd stood in her garage back in Massachusetts that no one had held him in a very long time.

"Dean," she said softly. "Sam is _your_ innocence."

Hesitantly, unsure if she would unconsciously cause a connection, Brenna reached out and laid her hand over his right one. She watched his lips press together, and her heart broke as a single tear slipped from his eye to run silently down the side of his face, bringing with it more pain than Brenna knew what to do with.

She flexed her hand over his and sat with him until he was able to gather his control and remove the arm across his forehead.

"How –" he started, cleared his throat and began again. "How did you know about the verse?"

She smiled. "I heard you… in the churchyard. I figured it was… I don't know… like Metallica in a way."

His eyes shifted down to her face. "Thanks."

She nodded. "I can give you something to help you sleep."

His brow pulled together. He opened his mouth to resist.

"You won't dream," she promised. "It will help you heal."

He was so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of being strong. He nodded.

She stepped away and came back a moment later with a water glass filled with a cloudy liquid. She tipped his head up, helping him drink. When it was gone, he lay back, again looking at the ceiling. She knew it wouldn't take long. In minutes his eyes blinked closed, and he sighed, his head drifting to the side in sleep.

Unable to resist, she reached out and ran her hand softly over the top of his hair. "_Tá mo chroí istigh ionat," _she confessed to his sleeping form, knowing that she could never, would never admit that to him when he could hear her. Sometimes the driftwood was thrown from the beachhead into the ocean… and sometimes it flung itself.

www

_a/n: One more chapter will follow to wrap everything up. Is it December 7th yet?_

_Translations:_

_Ar scáth a chéile a mhairimid. We live in each other's shadow._

_Mo chagren. I'm sorry._

_Ki sa se bon. That is good_

_Tá mo chroí istigh ionat. My heart is within you. (this is my favorite endearment in Gaelic… when spoken it sounds like a melody)_


	8. Chapter 8

**_Disclaimer/Spoilers/Explanation of Creole language use:_** _See Chapter 1. _

_a/n: Final chapter, folks. I hope you've enjoyed the ride! _

_Thank you for reading and sending me your reviews. _

_Ready to go again, Kelly?_

_www_

_Love is control_

_I'll die if I let go_

Within My Hands Part 8

Dean opened his eyes, blinking against the glare of the lights in the room. _Damn, it's bright in here_, he thought. Though at some point while he'd been out the overhead light had been turned off, the lamplight gave off an insane amount of light all of the sudden. He felt… clearer, stronger somehow. He licked his lips and moved his eyes around until he spotted Brenna, sitting at the foot of the bed, watching him.

"Where's Sam," he asked, his voice like sandpaper over gravel.

"Sleeping in the next room," she answered, her eyes not leaving his face.

Dean shifted his eyes to the door separating the two rooms. "He's not gonna like having that closed."

"He'll be okay," she replied.

He rubbed his eyes with his left hand. He felt stiff – his ribs sore. Like he hadn't moved in hours.

"How long was I out?"

"Six hours."

His eyes flew open. "What?!" he felt as if he'd just closed his eyes… and yet, he also felt rested.

"You needed it," she shrugged.

"What the hell was in that stuff?"

She shook her head. "Doesn't matter. It worked didn't it?"

_Hell yeah,_ he thought. _Six hours and no nightmares_. "Sam's still asleep?" he asked lifting his head slightly.

She lifted her eyes to the door. "I'm thinking it's gonna be awhile yet."

Dean dropped his head back onto the bed. "I'm surprised he didn't ask you to wake him in an hour."

"He did," she said. She watched his lips quirk into a grin.

"Man, I so need a shower," he said on a groan.

"Want any help?"

He had begun to roll very slowly, carefully into a sitting position, but froze at her comment, his eyebrow's quirking up at her. She blushed, realizing how her question sounded.

"That's _not_ what I meant."

"Sure, sure," he grinned.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, stepping away from the bed. He groaned again as he pushed himself to his feet. He felt like an old man, his muscles were stiff, his ribs sore, his head throbbed. He was surprised by the darkness outside of the window as he walked slowly passed. He had lost all sense of time. Was it even still Saturday?

"Here," Brenna spoke up as he reached the bathroom door. She handed him some scissors, a pair of sweats, boxers, and a grey T-shirt. He held up the scissors first.

"To cut off the bandages. I'll help you re-wrap them with more salve when you're done."

He nodded, took the bundle from her and closed the bathroom door behind him. Undressing was an agonizingly slow process, as was cutting the bandages from his ribs. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and was startled by the sunken appearance of his eyes, the bruises on his face, and the stubble on his chin. _You've had better days, Winchester_.

He turned the water on as hot as he could stand and stepped in. He leaned forward on his forearm against the tile wall under the shower head, letting the water beat down on his back, its rhythm and heat easing the ache from his abused muscles. To avoid having to think about what he'd done six hours ago… having to think about the nightmare witch and how disturbingly good it had felt to kill her… he focused on Brenna.

Sam had called her with a plea for help – help for Dean – and she'd come that same day, no questions asked. He and Sam just didn't have friends who did that for them. They didn't have…friends. There were a few fellow hunters their father had known like Caleb, and there were a few people sympathetic to their situation like Pastor Jim and Missouri… but friends? As far as Dean was concerned he and Sam were it, isolated, set apart from _normal_ people.

But then there was Brenna. She surprised him, captivated him, intrigued him… and he'd be lying if he didn't admit to being completely attracted to her physically. If he were ever around her when he was _not_ off his game, he would have hit on her in a heartbeat…tried to once, come to think of it. But now that he knew her – or knew what she allowed him to anyway – he found himself confused by her selflessness, amused by her spunk, and drawn to her spirit. He rolled his neck under the hot water from the shower and lifted his face with closed eyes so that the water worked to cleanse the weariness from his features. He stayed that way until the water began to cool. He washed carefully, stepped out, toweled off his short hair and gave his body a half-hearted swipe with the towel.

He had to sit on the edge of the shower for a moment to catch his breath before he pulled on his clothes. If Brenna hadn't been on the other side of the door, he would have foregone the sweatpants, but put them on for her benefit. He paused at the T-shirt. Getting it on was going to be a bitch. He didn't want to have to do it twice. He stepped out of the bathroom, shirtless, his bruises standing out in stark contrast to his lightly tanned chest.

Brenna was standing facing the window. She heard the door open and turned with the jar of salve in her hands. She hoped to _God_ that her expression didn't echo the hard thump of her heart when she saw him standing there, his green eyes set off by the coloring on his face, his eyelashes in tee-pees from the shower, and his still-wet hair sticking up in random tufts around his head. Droplets of water clung to his muscled chest and trailed down his bruised side.

He held up the T-shirt. "I figured, y'know… want to do the bandages first."

"Right." She didn't move.

Dean crossed the room slowly, not taking his eyes off of her. He hadn't missed the way she'd stilled when she saw him, or the widening of her pupils. He remembered seeing that expression in her eyes before. He remembered feeling her hair under his fingers. He remembered her taste.

He dropped the T-shirt on the bed, standing close to her, looking down at her. He watched her pull her bottom lip in, and take a breath. She opened the jar she had in her hand, and carefully eased the salve into the bruises, the stitches on his side, and the cuts on his shoulder. Once the wounded area was covered to her satisfaction, she grabbed the bandages.

"You need to sit down?" she asked, her voice husky.

"I'm good."

She nodded, then began to wrap his ribs, leaning forward as she reached her arms behind him until her body was almost touching his. He held still, his arms lifted away from his sides, and watched her. She resolutely refused to meet his gaze. She didn't even look at his face. She bound his ribs tightly – supporting the bones but not restricting his breathing. As soon as she was done he felt better. He could take a breath without the sharp stab of pain and the salve continued to help ease the ache.

"There."

"Thanks," his voice was low and he heard the tremor in it that betrayed him.

She lifted her face at that. When her eyes met his, he felt himself tremble. Almost without thinking, he reached up and cupped the back of her head, his fingers sliding through the soft, short curls of her hair, and his palms bringing her mouth to his. When he pressed his lips to hers, he felt himself sink, as if he'd been holding his breath for months and only now was free to truly breathe again.

She reached up hesitant hands to grasp his forearms – just as she'd done before. She heard Sam's voice in her head… _be careful with him_… but his mouth was on hers and he tasted so familiar, so good, and her heart was slamming against her ribs and she was breathing in his breath and her legs trembled and dammit she _wanted _this. She pulled away.

"Dean –"

"Don't," he said, his voice rough, his eyes pinning her with a gaze that was almost…ferocious.

"But –"

"No… just…" He reached for her again and she knew she should step back.

She knew that they would part ways. She knew their lives were not meant to match. But _God_ his hands were on her lower back now and he was pulling her forward, pressing her hips against his, and who the hell cared about tomorrow when today could be taken from them so easily.

Using her hips and avoiding his ribs, she pushed him back to the bed, pressing her mouth forward so that he had to tip back and sit down. When he was down, she pulled away.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?"

Her eyes curved up in a smile. "I don't bow to convention."

"I've noticed," he said, liking the way she stepped up to him, standing between his legs so that his face was level with her chest, her fingers gently combing through his hair, avoiding the wound at the back of his head.

Her movements with him suggested that he both belonged to her and she was borrowing him. He swallowed and lifted his eyes to hers. The last time he'd kissed her he thought it was goodbye. The time before that had been a desperate rebellion. This time…

"You seem to have a habit of saving my life," he said softly.

"You seem to have a habit of getting in over your head," she retorted, her fingers moving from his hair to the backs of his ears, softly stroking the fine hairs there. Dean shivered.

"You remember what you said," he asked.

"Which time," she lifted a brow.

"Couple months ago, when you said…"

"When I said all we have is now?"

"Yeah."

"Dean, you know better than anyone that tomorrow isn't guaranteed."

With a sigh he slowly lifted his hands from her hips to slide up her back, leaning slightly forward as he did so. He rested his forehead on her chest, breathing her in. It was odd, being this close to a woman – physically close – and just enjoying the feel of her body under his hands, the smell of her. He knew where he wanted to go, but for once he wasn't in a hurry to get there.

"Dean."

"Yeah."

He lifted his face to look at her and saw her pull her bottom lip in between her teeth, evidently unsure how to say what she wanted him to know. For a brief moment he wished for her power, wished to see inside of her as she could so easily see inside of him.

"C'mere," he growled, tipping his chin back minutely to beckon her. She leaned in and he flexed his fingers on her back to tip her further forward. When her mouth was hovering above his, he whispered, "I know."

Something seemed to snap inside of her. She dropped her mouth to his, allowing him to pull her lip into his mouth. He moaned softly in the back of his throat when she swept her tongue across his teeth, remembering his taste. Carefully, they eased back onto the bed in a near-choreographed mix of arms and legs.

He lay against the pillows, the blankets shoved to the bottom of the bed and she sat across his hips, holding her body away from his ribs in an almost unconscious position of protection. Her hands were braced on either side of his face; his hands were at her slim waist. She used her balance to press deeper into the kiss, alternating between almost cutting of their air supply and barely touching his lips.

"You're gonna kill me," he whispered as she pulled away and trailed her lips lightly over his cheekbones, forehead, and closed eyes. She slid her mouth to his ear and whispered back, "I didn't bring you back just to kill you."

He slid his hands up her sides, under her T-shirt and she shivered. Pulling his hands from her shirt and putting them on either side of her face he forced her to look at his eyes.

"Brenna," he said. Just her name. No sarcasm, no teasing, no clever lines, no flattery, no promises… just _Brenna_. She swallowed, straightening up and staying balanced over him so that her weight wouldn't cause him any pain, she crossed her arms and pulled her shirt over her head. She heard his involuntary groan and her lips quirked into the smile of a woman in control, pleased with herself for eliciting such a response from him.

He licked his dry lips, and she leaned close again for a kiss, stopping short with a gasp at the feeling of his hands on her bare skin. The tremble began in her belly and eased its way out to her fingertips. This time it was Dean's turn to grin. He knew exactly what his touch had done to her. She lifted an eyebrow at that, and with the grace of a gymnast rid them both of the rest of their clothing with barely a sound and without his having to move.

"Wow," he said. "Should I be worried about how good you are at that?"

She settled herself across his hips again, her short hair falling into her eyes giving her a sleepy, sexy look that made Dean clench his jaw. "Only if I should be worried that you knew exactly how to touch me."

Dean's mouth lifted in a slow grin. He slid his hands up her back as she leaned in for another kiss. He relished in the feel of her – the differences in their bodies, in the texture of their skin, the feel of their muscles. He remembered how he'd wanted to take her before… to rid himself of her… of the feelings for her that he didn't want to have. As she took him instead, he allowed those feelings to wash over him, wrap around him, fill him with her sent, the sound of her breath, the movement of her body, the taste of her kiss.

Brenna knew that no matter how much she closed off her heart now, he was a part of her. She could feel him connect to her and knew that no matter where their lives took them, no matter who they met, or who they allowed themselves to love, they would have this moment of healing, this moment of light against the dark.

www

"You ever think about quitting?"

"You can't quit what you were born to be."

"But it's dangerous… if the wrong person found out what you've done… what you could do…"

She shifted sideways, propping herself up on an elbow and resting her tousled head in her open palm, looking at him before she answered. She'd put on his sweats and a spare T-shirt, but he lay covered only by the blankets and his bandages.

"Sounds like you're worried about me, tough guy," she smiled.

He gave her a half grin. "It's a crazy world out there."

His ribs ached a bit from the strain he'd just put them under, but her salve was still working its magic. He felt relaxed, his muscles easy and pliable, and his head had even stopped pounding. He'd told Sam it was the best way he knew to relieve stress and he hadn't been lying.

Still propped on her side, Brenna watched him, smiling at the lazy look of his eyes, the absence of the lines of pain around his eyes. She knew he'd be sore tomorrow…or later when they got up, but for this moment, he seemed almost… peaceful.

"Well, what about you?" she asked.

"What about me what?"

"You found your Dad –"

"And lost him again."

"—why don't you quit?"

He shook his head, his lips twisting ruefully. "Because it's still out there. The demon. And Dad and Sammy… they won't ever stop. Not until it's dead. Not just exorcized. But dead."

_Dad and Sammy…_ she thought. He hadn't even noticed that he left himself out of the equation. She pressed her lips together, watching his eyes as he looked down at something no one but Dean could see. He was so conditioned to take care of them, to sacrifice for them, he didn't even notice it anymore.

"But… when it's dead?"

Dean shrugged and she saw something akin to hurt flash across his eyes. "There's always gonna be something evil to hunt."

"And you're just gonna… wander around looking for it?"

He slid his eyes to her. "You can't quit what you were born to be."

She looked down as her own words were tossed back at her. Being a druid was a birthright; it was _who she was_. Until this moment, she'd looked at Dean's life as a choice he made, but now she could see that the two situations weren't that different. She felt his sigh rather than heard it.

"Want me to go?" she asked, stiffening, ready to get out of the bed.

"No," he whispered, unable to meet her eyes. He felt warm, safe with her pressed up against him. It felt like for just a moment, he could allow himself to relax.

"'Kay."

She shifted in the bed so that she was on her back and he was tilted slightly to the left. He dropped his head into the hollow space between her shoulder and collar bone, his left arm under the small of her back, his right pressed against his ribs with his hand on her belly. She felt him relax onto her and held very still until she could feel him shift from wakefulness to sleep. He didn't notice when she switched off the light.

www

"You gonna sleep for the week or what, Sammy?"

_That sounds like Dean…_ Sam blinked open groggy eyes, staring at his brother. "Dean?"

"It's about time, Francis," Dean grumbled good-naturedly, staring down at Sam. "I've heard of beauty sleep, but this is ridiculous."

Dean was standing at the side of the bed, dressed in clean jeans, a gray T-shirt, and his leather jacket. His bruises were still vivid purple against the pale of his skin and he held his right arm carefully against his side, but his eyes were bright and clear and almost dancing.

"Man," Sam pushed his arms out in a cat-stretch. "How long was I out?"

"Almost 18 hours."

"What?!"

Dean lifted his brows and nodded. "You needed it, kiddo."

"What about you?"

Dean's mouth relaxed into a grin. "Oh, I got some."

Sam blinked at him, rubbing his eyes again. "Where's Brenna?"

"She's downstairs getting the bill handled."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "She's not paying."

"Hell no. She's just doing the legwork," Dean said, giving the bed a half-hearted kick. "Now go get yourself put together. We have to scram."

"We got a job or something?"

Dean had turned toward his room, and paused, looking at Sam. "No, I, uh…" He looked away, his gaze traveling out of the window. "I just want to get out of here."

Away. That's what they'd started to do when they stumbled onto this job. Get away from the memories. Sam swung his legs out of the bed, watching Dean's retreating back. He wondered how long it was going to be before there were too many memories and not enough places to hide.

"Dean?"

"Yeah," his brother's voice was slightly muffled as it traveled back to him from the separate room.

"You think they're gonna be okay?"

There was a pause. Sam held still, waiting.

"They're not in danger anymore."

"Not what I meant."

He heard Dean's sigh, and tried to picture his brother's face as he worked out whether or not he cared if the Coulee family would be a unit or if the distrust that had almost gotten him killed would eventually tear them apart.

"I don't know, Sammy."

Sam nodded. At least he was honest. He pushed himself to his feet and gathered his clothes. He was showered and packed inside of ten minutes. He and Brenna walked into Dean's room at the same time. Dean was picking up the guns from the table one at a time with his left hand and putting them in the spare duffel. He kept his right arm pressed protectively against his side. He looked up at the sound of the door opening and Sam didn't miss the flash of something that flashed between Dean and Brenna.

As quickly as it came, though, it was gone and Brenna set about moving Dean out of the way so that she could use both hands to pack up their weapons. Dean just flicked his eyebrows at that. He tried to pick up his duffel and Sam smoothly stepped in and grabbed it along with the bag of weapons.

"Dude, what the hell."

Sam barely spared him a glance. "Just give it one more day, man. You aren't Superman, you know," he grumbled and walked out of the room.

Brenna shouldered her own bag and flicked a raised eyebrow at him mouthing, _Told you._

Dean narrowed his eyes at her mouthing back, _Shut up_.

Outside, they walked to the Impala, still sandwiched safely between a blue truck and the VW bug. Sam opened the trunk and tossed the bags in. Brenna stood on the sidewalk, shifting her weight from side to side, watching as the boys arranged the bags so that the weapons were in easy reach.

Sam turned to her, "Need a lift?"

She grinned. "To Massachusetts? That's a bit of a drive."

Dean shrugged. "We haven't been to the east coast in a few months… might be a job there."

Sam looked over at his brother. His tone had sounded odd… almost hopeful in a way. Sam couldn't tell, though, if Dean were hoping she'd accept or decline.

Brenna smiled, her eyes a little sad. "It's okay. Seriously." She dropped her eyes, then looked up to catch both of them in her glance. "I know my way home."

"Let us at least take you to the airport," Sam persisted. A horn blared behind them and the boys turned to see an orange, white, and blue cab double parked by the Impala.

Brenna shook her head again. "I got it."

She stepped up to Sam and stood on her toes to reach around his neck. He leaned down and hugged her back whispering, "Thank you… for all of it."

"You take care of him," she whispered back.

She stepped away and smiled at his slightly surprised eyes.

She turned to Dean. He pulled in his lower lip, looking down. She reached up and rested her hand against his face. When he left her last time, she didn't know when or if she'd ever see him again, and in _that _moment, she was relieved. Now… she felt her heart tremble a bit.

She took a breath and reached into her pocket to pull out a piece of paper. She picked up his left hand, turning it over and pressing the paper into his hand. He looked down at it.

"What's this?"

"List of ingredients for the…purple goo," she said, her eyes twinkling. He looked at her and grinned. She shrugged. "Figure you might find use of it now and again."

"Thanks," he said, looking back down at the list, his eyebrows twisting in slight confusion. "What's this… nile… nile gack…"

She smiled. "_Níl gach uile fhánaí caillte._"

He lifted an eyebrow in question. She smiled at him, blinking slowly. "Not all who wander are lost."

He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, not touching her anywhere else, connecting to her one last time. Sam folded his mouth into a small smile, dropping his eyes. When they pulled apart, her eyes flicked from one brother to the other, then she stepped between them, got into the cab, and looked resolutely ahead as it drove away.

Sam and Dean watched her leave and as the cab passed _Katr_, they saw Joss standing out in front, watching them. The brothers lifted their chins in a silent greeting, and Joss lifted a hand in return, then turned and went back into the bar. The job was done. They move on. But Sam found himself wondering again about the future of this family… how the loss of Judah had affected their balance. He looked over at Dean, watching as his brother kept his eyes on the retreating cab, and he knew with absolute certainty that if anything ever happened to Dean… if he ever lost him, he wouldn't survive it. He'd survived Jessica because of Dean… he'd even survived the loss of their mom. But he knew the one person he couldn't lose was his brother.

Dean pulled his arm tighter against his side, rotating his neck.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"You wanna drive?"

Sam smiled and held out his hand for the keys. The doors to the Impala creaked as they got in. Sam turned on the car, oddly comforted by the roar of the engine. The radio was on and they both looked at the dial as the first bars of a familiar song belted from the speakers.

"_Carry on my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest. Don't you cry no more."_

Sam pulled out of the spot, turned onto the street and followed the signs to the interstate. Driving… away. _Just pick a direction, Sam_. They were back on the road where their footing was sure, where they had a small amout of control, and where they were together. He heard Dean sigh over the rumble of the Impala's engine as he shifted to a comfortable position in the passenger seat, reaching over with his left hand to clap Sam on the shoulder.

"Damn, it's good to be home."

www

_a/n: Please drop me a line and let me know if the pacing and length of the story worked for you. I've started sketching out another that's going to be less plot-driven, more about the brothers with some flashback/memories of childhood and season 1 included. Your feedback on what works and what doesn't is invaluable to me._

_Translations:_

_Níl gach uile fhánaí caillte. Not all who wander are lost._


End file.
